


Chemical Defect

by elessar_undomiel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Punklock, Rugby Captain John, Teenlock, balletlock, rugbyjohn, tattoolock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-23 04:31:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 26,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4863236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elessar_undomiel/pseuds/elessar_undomiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story of friendship and love, youth and discovery, tattoos and ballet, murder and origami.<br/>The story of John Watson, the kind, responsible boy next door who plays rugby and gets good grades, and Sherlock Holmes, the rude, careless bad boy with tattoos and piercings scattered around his body, who fights and does ballet.<br/>The story of what's hiding behind their facades.<br/>The story of how they find each other and, together, they make magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I have a few things to say before we start :)
> 
> 1-this is my first long fic, I hope it will be good enough :)  
> 2-I'll publish this as I write it, so I can't tell you when the next chapter will be published, but I'll try to update as often as possible!  
> 3-the rating will definitely raise up to Explicit, and tags will be added. I'll point it out when it happens, but I can already tell you that there will definitely be sex at some point. And most probably non-graphic violence and homophobia, or at least hints. And I think there will be a bit of Mystrade in the background.  
> 4-every now and then I'll add links to visual aids (pictures, drawings, edits and so on), so that if my descriptions are not clear enough you can understand what I meant ;P
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoy it! :) <3

John snorted, still pacing the hallway. Why did it take her so long? Harry had been in the changing room for twenty minutes by then, and he was going to be late to the first rugby practice of the year. He glanced at some of the rooms to distract himself, catching glimpses of skinny girls in leotards. Not exactly his cup of tea, he preferred some curves, but there was something quite fascinating in the harmonious way they spun and jumped and -

He almost choked on his breath when his gaze landed on a naked body. It took him good five seconds of shocked staring to finally notice the waistband of a pair of creamy leggings, which offered no contrast with the pale skin of his bare back and sticked to every curve of his thighs and arse. _His_. Because he was a bloke, and John was staring at him, and he should definitely stop _right now_ if he didn’t want people to misunderstand. And yet John couldn’t look away: the boy was so graceful, his leg stretched up into a vertical split, but [his dark, curly mohawk and his tattoos](http://elessar-undomiel.tumblr.com/post/129776218079/chemical-defect-visual-aid-n1-this-could-be) seemed a promise of something more, something interesting, something dangerous. His gaze lingered on the hexagonal pattern on his shoulder, which fragmented and turned into Chemical formulas down his back, and he wished he knew what they meant, he wished he knew everything about this unusual guy.

His sister’s voice startled him, and he quickly looked away, clearing his throat and heading for the exit. An hour later, on the rugby field, lost in the feeling of the Autumn breeze and of his aching muscles, he had already forgotten the bizarre vision in the dance studio, but his dreams that night would be full of messy curls and pointed feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been kind of a hell to write -even though it's so short- and it's probably quite awful, but hopefully everything will flow as soon as the story begins ;)


	2. Chapter 2

A few days had passed, and John was mooning about the dance studio once again. And once again he found himself staring at the tattooed dancer. This time he was wearing short black leggings and a large black singlet that hanged loose on his muscular shoulders, revealing hints of skin and inks that tickled John’s curiosity more than ever.

John leaned against the door jamb, his gaze following pirouettes and leaps, tensed muscles and fluttering curls, almost blurry in the speed of his movements. When the music came to an end, the boy stopped and stood still, only his shoulders moving up and down with his panting. John looked at his reflection on the mirrored wall, and his heart stopped when he realised that a pair of wide-opened eyes were holding his gaze.

_Fuck_.

He had been an idiot, staring at him like a creep, how could he be so stupid? He opened his mouth to apologise, to babble any ridiculous excuse he could think of, but in the end he just shut it and ran away, heart pounding fast and hard against his ribcage. He stopped when he reached the lobby, pressing his forehead against the nearest wall and pointedly ignoring the curious stares of passers-by. He could still see those fair eyes, opened in shock, worried. Damn.

By the time his sister arrived he had managed to get a grip, at least outwardly, but his heart seemed not to be keen on slowing his pace. Once again, practice helped him clearing his mind, and he decided to go find him and excuse himself next time he’d go to the studio. 

Luckily, he didn’t have to wait much: the next morning, as he rummaged in his locker in search of his Chemistry textbook, he recognised an angular face and a mop of dark curls a few lockers away. His gaze _didn’t_ linger at all on his arms, left bare by a black vest covered with studs, on the leather armband at his wrist, or on his long, thin fingers fidgeting with the padlock, and he definitely _didn’t_ notice how his skin-tight black jeans wrapped his arse and thighs. He shook his head, breathed in, breathed out, and headed for the boy.

* * *

“Hey” A voice came from behind him. Sherlock turned around, unsheathing his most annoyed expression. A wave of fear rose in him as he saw the rugby captain, but he tried to keep his face straight.

He didn’t even bother to look around and check if anyone else was there: no one would have raised a finger to protect him, no one ever had. He already knew it would have happened. When the day before he had seen a boy with a rugby jacket -clearly the new captain, future Med student, alcoholic ballet dancer sister, probably violent father- he knew he would have come and beaten him up. And his team was probably behind the corner, ready to help out.

That was how it worked: there was a food chain in high school, and the rugby team was on top of it. Sherlock was a freak, who outwitted anyone and made unwanted deductions, so they always found an excuse to fight. Admittedly, many times it was Sherlock himself who started the brawls, and he never missed an chance to fight back: life was so boring, and the rush of adrenaline was worth the pain of some bruises.

But this time it was different: it wasn’t a rude comment or a push in the hallway. It was him being a ballet dancer. His bad-boy reputation had been enough to stop most people from attacking him, but almost anyone in the school had a reason to punch him in the face, and now _this_ … this was exactly the kind of thing that made people team up and beat the piss out of you.

He set his jaw. He was going to fight back. They would probably beat him even harder, but there was no way he was going to surrender easily. Broken ribs hurt, but he could bear it. He held the shorter boy’s gaze with as much arrogance and annoyance as he could and waited.

“I- Sorry, I just- I wanted to say I’m sorry. For- for yesterday, you know…”

Oh.

This was… this was quite unexpected. Luckily, the boy was now staring at his feet, because Sherlock couldn’t prevent his utter astonishment from showing on his face. He tried to get a grip, but then those dark blue eyes settled on his own again, and he found he couldn’t really scowl at him.

“I swear, I’m not a creep” An insecure smile arched his thin lips, and Sherlock had a hard time stopping his own mouth from doing the same. “I was waiting for my sister and I saw you dancing and it was amazing and [I- I don’t know. I don't- I don’t know. I’m- I don’t wa- I…I don’t know.](https://youtu.be/qsZ0Vpg6ljM?t=1m55s)”

He was looking down again, and he was so… endearing? Sherlock had never even thought of using that adjective referring to anything, ever, but it seemed quite fitting now. He really couldn’t stifle a smile, this time.

Somehow, he managed to keep his voice steady as he muttered “You really think so? That it was good, that is?”

The boy looked up, into Sherlock’s eyes, a wide smile spreading on his face. “Of course it was. It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.”

Sherlock’s smile widened, and he found himself looking away.

“I- I’m John, by the way. John Watson.”

Sherlock looked back at him and shook the hand that John had extended. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Nice to meet you. Ok now I- I’d better go. Chemistry. See you around, ok?”

Sherlock nodded, pleased at John’s sincere smile. He saw him dashing off and couldn’t hold back. “John” he called out. The boy stopped and turned around, a curious look on his face. “If you want…” Sherlock’s voice was little more than a mumble, and John had to take a few steps back to hear him. “If you want to watch... I mean, when you have to wait for your sister... it’s- it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

Sherlock felt heat rising to his cheeks. Great, now he was bushing like a schoolgirl… but it was fine, as long as John kept beaming at him as he was doing now. 

“Sure. Great. It’s- yeah, sure, I will. Bye!”

He ran off again, and Sherlock followed him with his eyes until he turned the corner. He scratched the back of his head, entwining his fingers with his curls, a light smirk still on his lips. This was definitely unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, they're two babbling idiots. And yes, since I was making them stutter so much I couldn't resist to "quote" Martin's interview from the other day (I had to cut a few "I don't know"s because it was really too much :P)  
> I really hope you like it :)  
> Have a nice day  
> xx


	3. Chapter 3

After a couple of weeks it had become a habit for John. Three times a week, before his rugby practice, he went to the dance studio and waited for his sister on the threshold of Sherlock’s room. Harry didn’t comment on his new pastime, which was an unexpected luck given her inclination to pry into his life, so John could just enjoy it. And he really did. He was always stunned by the grace of the dancer and thrilled by the harshness and the anger that seemed to merge with it. And every now and then, between the endless repetitions of routines and choreographies, Sherlock would throw him a shy smile.

But that was all, it was the only acknowledgement of John’s existence from him: every time they met in the corridors Sherlock ignored him, and when John tried to approach him he dashed off. And John liked watching him dance, a lot, but it wasn’t enough. There was something in that guy… he couldn’t put his finger on it, but he had a gut feeling that they could get along.

And there was more. He had never heard of him before, but now that he knew his name he heard it everywhere, as if everyone around him had some rumour to spread. Mostly nasty rumours. They talked about him as a rude, arrogant arsehole who spent his time spitting cruel comments about anything and anyone, and even though he might look a bit like that, the description didn’t exactly fit the impression John got from their almost-chat by the locker.

So in the end it was partly to prove himself right and partly because he really didn’t want to waste the opportunity to make friends with someone interesting at last. He grabbed his tray and crossed the cafeteria, beyond the table implicitly reserved to the rugby team to the one where Sherlock was sitting alone, staring into the void, his meal still untouched.

“Mind if I sit here?” John said, setting his tray down and sitting in front of him before he could answer. Sherlock looked at him between astonished and shocked, but he didn’t complain, so John smiled relieved and filled his mouth with a forkful of mac and cheese. Sherlock was still looking at him, wide-eyed. “Are you alright? Aren’t you eating?”

Sherlock seemed to shake himself. “What day is it?”

“Wednesday.” John frowned, not quite getting the connection.

“I’m ok for a bit. I only took the tray to make my brother shut up.”

It took John a couple of seconds to understand what that meant. “You haven’t eaten today? For God’s sake, you need to eat!”

Sherlock frowned at him. “No, I don't. I need to think. The brain’s what counts. Everything else is transport.”

“You might consider refuelling.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Sherlock reluctantly forked some pasta and started to eat. John smiled, utterly pleased, and they just ate in silence for a while. Then John spoke again, his curiosity getting the better. “So… do you have a girlfriend who… feeds you up sometimes?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Is that what girlfriends do? Feed you up?”

“You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”

Sherlock looked away. “Not really my area.”

John hummed. It took him a few seconds, but then something clicked. “Oh. Right. Do you have a boyfriend?” Sherlock looked back at him, his eyes slightly narrowed. “Which is fine, by the way.”

“I know it’s fine” Sherlock answered pronto.

Well, not exactly an answer actually. “So you don’t have a boyfriend then?”

“No.”

John unconsciously licked his lips. “Fine. Okay. So, unattached, like me. Good.” He couldn’t actually put a finger on the way it made him feel. Not that it made him feel in a particular way. At all. He had no reason to.

He filled his mouth with food again, not knowing exactly what else he could say. Sherlock looked even more confused than before. Damn, not that good as a first chat. Why was he so nervous? He was making a mess, he needed to stop acting as a complete idiot.

“So… What courses are you attending? Well, actually, now that I think of that, what year are you in?” Ok, still quite an idiot but he was improving. Baby steps.

Sherlock didn’t answer, though; he just stared at him for a while and then looked away. “Why did you sit here?” His voice was harsh, even lower than usually -and that said it all.

“S-sorry, what?”

Sherlock looked back at him, his eyes narrowed, his gaze cold. “You heard me, why did you sit here? No one does. No one _ever_ does.”

John was puzzled. He didn’t know what to say. Did it mean that Sherlock didn’t want him there? After all, he had _presumed_ that Sherlock would have wanted to socialise with him, but apparently he shouldn’t have taken it for granted. “Do- do you want me to go?” He tried not to sound too sad: why was he, after all?

“Yes”

Oh. John looked down to his lap, torn between disappointment and frustration. Why did he care so much? Well, whatever, he wasn’t going to beg for anyone’s friendship. He grabbed his tray, but before he could stand he was stopped by another grumble. “I mean, no.” Sherlock wasn’t looking at him; he seemed quite nervous and a bit annoyed. “I don’t know… Well, that’s not the point anyway.”

John looked at him for a few seconds and then bursted into laughter. Sherlock’s gaze snapped back to him, shocked as if John had just shot a man in front of him. His laughter softened into a smile. “What the hell does that mean? That’s the only point, if you want me to go away I will, otherwise I’ll stay. It’s quite easy”

“It’s not. If you stay here, people will think we’re… friends. And I would advise you against it because it won’t make things easy for you with your friends when… when I make you run off.”

John was as confused as ever. “Ok Sherlock, wait, I really can’t follow you. What are you talking about?”

Sherlock looked at him and sighed as if he was asking if the Sun went around the Earth. “Because people hate me, John, and they will think you’re an arsehole too if they see you with me.”

Oh, so that was it, obviously. John couldn’t stifle a fond smile. “So this is what you think? You think you’re an arsehole? Is this why you think I’ll run off?”

Sherlock looked down. “I don’t _think_ , I _know_. You’ve just met me, but as soon as I open my mouth you’ll wish you never had.”

John remained silent for a while, pondering, then spoke again. “Do your worst then.”

Sherlock looked up, baffled. “What?”

John smirked and stared into his eyes, crossing his arms and leaning against the table. “I said do your worst. If you’re really going to make me run away do it now. No need to drag it out. Show me the best you can do. Make. Me. Run.”

Sherlock frowned, a defiant look in his fair eyes. “New captain of the rugby team. Year 11, good with scientific subjects, not as much with the humanistic ones. You want to study Medicine but you’re afraid you won’t be able to afford it, so you’re pondering to join the army, which also gives you the thrill you’re always looking for. Oh yes, you are. Everyone thinks you’re so quiet and nice, but you’d give up on anything for a rush of adrenaline. And furthermore, the army would give you the opportunity to stay away from home. Violent father, alcoholic sister. Your mother is probably both. I guess your family is the main reason why you stick to this perfect-guy facade: less trouble this way. Your sister is lesbian, she tried to hide it from you family but they found out in the end. They weren’t happy. So you have probably had a lot of girlfriends, partly to reassure them about their son’s heterosexuality, partly because you actually liked them, but in the end they were all too boring, and you always found an excuse to break up. Oh, and that pain you have in your leg every now and then? Psychosomatic.”

John was completely overwhelmed. He remained still, staring at him, his mouth hanging open, for a bunch of seconds before he could talk again. “How- how could you possibly know? I haven’t told anyone about the army yet! And- and the other stuff too, how do you know?”

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t _know_ , I _saw_ it. In the way you walk, stand, talk, act, in the books that peek out of your bag, in the type of bruises on your forearm and face. In a thousand of little things: the little things are infinitely the most important. Now, I will spare you the effort of deciding what to do: this is the moment when you punch me and say-”

“Amazing.”

It wasn’t loud, just a breath, slipped almost accidentally. And, apparently, staggering: Sherlock looked doubtful, not quite sure he had actually heard it. But John smiled and repeated it, this time out loud. “That was amazing!”

Sherlock looked at him as if he had just grown a second head. “You- do you think so?”

John’s grin grew even wider. “Of course. Brillant! It was- my God, you’re amazing!”

A small, insecure smile arched Sherlock’s lips. “That’s not what people normally say.”

John frowned in confusion. “What do people normally say?”

“Piss off.”

They looked into each other’s eyes for a couple of seconds and then both of them looked away, grinning like mad.

The school bell startled them and they reluctantly gathered their stuff. And maybe, _maybe_ , they took their time to leave the cafeteria, walking just a bit slower than necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to the gay pilot for the scene at Angelo's and to A Study in Pink for the "piss off" scene (I had to change it a bit because I had already used a part in chapter 2)
> 
> N.B. I wanted to say one thing: John and Sherlock will probably be a bit OOC if you think about how they are in the series. The thing is, John hasn't gone to war. He has a hard life, but he's not completely wrecked. His spirit his lighter, and maybe he's a bit less of a trashcan. And Sherlock is still a teenager, more fragile and, if possible, even smoller than he is as an adult. He's tried to build walls around himself, but he still hasn't managed completely. This is what I'm considering as I develop their character, and it should explain the OOC ;)
> 
> That said, thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter :))


	4. Chapter 4

It was strange. Chatting, smiling, laughing. It wasn’t something he was used to, at all, but it seemed quite natural with John. In the week following their lunch at the cafeteria they had spent a lot of time together -well, at least a lot more than Sherlock was used to spend with people before he got bored or they punched him- and he couldn’t get enough of it. They chatted at the lockers in the morning, and exchanged a few hurried words -or sometimes just a smile- when they met in the corridors between lessons. John sat with him at lunch and they ate together -John forced him to- sometimes talking, sometimes just in companionable silence. And then there were the days when John came at the studio and watched him dance. And he didn’t look at him with anger, annoyance or disgust: John looked at him as if he was doing something beautiful, as if there was nothing in the world but them.

It was strange, and beautiful. He had never had a friend, and he had never imagined that it could be like this.

Sherlock leaned against the wall, eyes closed, a soft smile on his lips and a cigaret between his fingers. A buzz in his pocket distracted him from the cataloguing in his Mind Palace of the last few meetings with John. He grabbed his phone and unlocked it. 

_I hope you are having a good time with your new friend, brother dear. MH_

Wonderful. He was really missing his brother’s pestering texts. Still better than calls, though, at least he didn’t have to hear his stupid voice. And since he preferred to call and he surely knew that Sherlock had an hour break, so there could be only a reason for him to text.

_I hope the dentist has torn out all of your teeth. Brother dear. SH_

He considered switching his phone off, but it buzzed again.

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. Don’t get involved. MH_

Sherlock typed back furiously.

_Involved? I’m not involved. SH_

Images of John’s smile and his deep blue eyes started flashing in his mind. The incoming text almost startled him.

_No, of course you’re not. Enjoy not getting involved, Sherlock. MH_

Fuck. Sherlock switched his phone off, threw his cigarette to the ground and headed back in.

He would have never said it out loud, but maybe Mycroft was right this time. He had known John for less than a month, talked to him for just one week and he already couldn’t think of going back to life as it was before. This wasn’t good. John was going to leave one day, he was managing to put up with him more than anyone else before but he was going to have enough of him one day, and then what? But what was he supposed to do now? Giving up before it was too late? That was probably the best choice, but he knew he wasn't strong enough. He was just going to enjoy the moment until it lasted. And maybe, if he was lucky, he would get bored of John before John could get sick of him.

Absorbed in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the bell ringing, nor the crowd of students that poured out into the corridor, but he _did_ hear a known and relished voice.

“Hey Phil. Yeah, sure, just… can you be quick? I’m in a rush, I have Biology now.”

Sherlock was tempted to go there and greet him, but maybe it wasn’t the best thing to do if he was talking with a friend. So he hid in the crowd and tried to overhear as Philip Anderson’s annoying voice answered.

“Sure. It’s just… we’ve seen you hanging out with that Holmes guy, is that true? I mean really, mate, you should think twice when you choose who you befriend… He’s such a freak, just get rid of him!”

It wasn’t the worst thing Sherlock had ever heard said about him, but somehow it hurt more than anything. Because it was true, he was a freak and it would be better for John to leave him. It was true and fucking scary.

“You know, I guess you’re right.”

Oh. So that was it. It was over. It had been so easy to make John open his eyes, and the worst thing was that Sherlock couldn’t actually blame him.

“Of course I am right. I’m happy you-”

“You’re right, Anderson, I should choose my friends better.” His voice was calm and controlled, but rage was clearly burning beneath it. “Possibly not idiotic arseholes like you, who spit shitty unasked comments just because they’re jealous of someone who’s a thousand times smarter than them. Now go the fuck away. And I swear, if I hear you talking about him that way again I’m gonna break your fucking nose.”

Oh. _Oh_. This was unexpected to say the least. Sherlock remained completely still as Anderson walked away, as John spotted him and rushed towards him, worry clear on his face. John’s hands rested on his shoulders and he shook himself at last at the sound of his voice.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry you heard that. He's an idiot, he's just an idiot.”

“No, no, it’s-it’s fine. That… er... thing that you… er… that you did– that… um… you said. That was… um... good.”

What? Was this the best he could verbalise? Amazing. John seemed to understand, though, since he smiled relieved, and took his hands off of Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Ok. I have to dash now, you sure you’re ok?”

He was still worried. He had defended him, which was already more than Sherlock could ever dream, and now he was worried about him. How could Sherlock be less than fine? He beamed and nodded.

“Sure, never been better.”

John grinned back. “Great. See you later, then.”

“Yep. Goodbye, John.”

John began to walk away, turning his head after a few steps to smile at him again over his shoulder, then ran towards his classroom.

Sherlock skipped his lesson, instead. He went outside and retired to his Mind Palace: what had just happened deserved a nice special place in the always-expanding wing dedicated to John.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock dances on Paganini's Caprice no 13.  
> You'll find the link in the chapter, when the music starts, and also links to the moments when the rhythm changes, so you can click them if you want to follow the evolution of the music, but it's not actually necessary. :)

Sherlock was still stretching when John entered the studio. He sat on the floor near the door, hands wrapped around his knees, and watched.

Sherlock was stretching his leg upwards, sideways, in a vertical split. Every single muscle of his body, from his fingers to his toes, was tensed. And in perfect display, since he was bare chested like the first time John had seen him, wearing only a pair of short black leggings.

This time he could see his front through the mirror, and [he spotted another tattoo](http://elessar-undomiel.tumblr.com/post/130265525484/chemical-defect-visual-aid-n2-quick): two symmetrical ‘f’s, like the holes on a violin or a cello. They followed the contour of his slightly defined abs, accentuating his v-line, and their lower end disappeared under the waistband of his leggings. Hadn’t John been straight he would have found it incredibly sexy, the way they blatantly converged to his crotch. But he wasn’t gay, so it was only… fascinating. Intriguing at most. He looked away from Sherlock’s bulge -wait, since when was he even looking at it?- and shifted his gaze to his face.

Sherlock slowly lowered his leg and beamed at John in the mirror. John was too busy smiling back at him to notice the knowing glance of Mrs Hudson, Sherlock’s teacher. She was a kind and professional woman, strict when needed -and Sherlock definitely needed it- but with a big heart. John had never had the opportunity to talk to her, since he always arrived when the lesson had already began and left before its end, but he could see it from the way she acted towards Sherlock, as if she was his mother. And Sherlock would never admit it out loud, but he was very fond of her as well.

Sherlock breathed in, then out, and [a violin started to play](https://youtu.be/Ffvww1dqxkU?t=4s).

It was soft and light at the beginning, and Sherlock moved from his spot at the centre of the room to its rightmost edge, with tiny quick steps and little bounces, ending with a higher leap on a louder and longer note. Then all over again, the same theme and the same routine, up to the left side.

[A slightly brisker rhythm](https://youtu.be/Ffvww1dqxkU?t=35s), and Sherlock began to conquer the space, not moving in a straight line any more, but all around the room. Still limited movements, though, nothing extraordinary. Well, only if you didn’t consider extraordinary the grace of that slender body, almost floating in the air, muscles flicking under the pale, inked skin.

[But then the pace quickened](https://youtu.be/Ffvww1dqxkU?t=1m4s), notes chasing one another in a crazy hunt, and Sherlock seemed to be everywhere at the same time. Infinite jumps and spins, fast and accurate, energetic and graceful.

And as it had started, it ended. Pause.

Sherlock stood still, right leg pointed behind him and left arm raised.

Just for one moment,[ then the music started again](https://youtu.be/Ffvww1dqxkU?t=1m47s), soft as at the beginning, matched by the ethereal movements of Sherlock’s arms. He was almost on the spot, his feet barely moving in slow pirouettes.

And then, [with a light crescendo of the music](https://youtu.be/Ffvww1dqxkU?t=2m1s), Sherlock was twirling towards him. He got so close that John could reach out and touch him, and he had to curl his hands into tight fists to keep from doing it. Sherlock was [spinning on his spot, ever so slowly](https://youtu.be/Ffvww1dqxkU?t=2m8s), one leg raised and bent behind him. One, two, three turns, and then he lowered his leg and twirled quicker as [the pace of the violin increased one last time](https://youtu.be/Ffvww1dqxkU?t=2m12s).

And then, as the melody was closed by [two powerful notes](https://youtu.be/Ffvww1dqxkU?t=2m15s), Sherlock sank to his knees and threw his arms and head back.

One second of silence, two, then Sherlock’s body relaxed. He sat on his heels, hand on his knees, panting a bit, and looked at John, an insecure smile on his lips.

And John couldn’t help beaming and whispering “Amazing!”, and Sherlock’s smile was so soft and proud and excited that it was almost as beautiful as his performance.

Mrs Hudson cleared her throat and Sherlock jumped to his feet, a faint blush on his sharp cheekbones.

John watched Sherlock, his friend Sherlock, his amazing friend Sherlock, dancing around the room, until the light weight of Harry’s hand on his shoulder marked the end of the best part of his day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would have wanted to describe the coreography in detail, but since John doesn't know the terminology of ballet it would have been quite impossible from his POV :/ but I hope you enjoyed it anyways.  
> Not much plot in this chapter, but hey, it's punk!tattoo!ballet!lock, I wanted some more dancing and I couldn't wait to describe this other tattoo I had in mind ;P
> 
> Tomorrow I'll start lessons at Uni, so I definitely won't be able to update almost daily as I did in these days, but I swear that I'll do it as often as possible ;)


	6. Chapter 6

“Those things will kill you.”

They had finished lunch quite early, so they had moved to the back garden to relax for a while before the afternoon lessons. John was sitting, his back resting against a tree, and Sherlock was laying on the ground, eyes closed, smoking a cigarette.

John had spent most of the time covertly staring at him. Well, not _staring_. Just… looking. For a bit. Only for the time necessary to commit to memory every detail of his face. His pale skin stretched on sharp cheekbones, so rarely coloured by a faint blush, mostly when John complimented him. The deep Cupid’s bow that crowned his plump lips, now slightly bent in a calm, unconscious smile. The soft curve of his nose and the silver ring that pierced his septum. [Oh, his piercings](http://elessar-undomiel.tumblr.com/post/130629559274/chemical-defect-visual-aid-n3-ok-really), it took him a while to memorise them all. Two bars on his left eyebrow. He changed them quite often, today they were both silvery, one with balls at its ends, the other with spikes. Two small black rings on his left earlobe and a stunning amount of piercings of any kind scattered around his right ear.

And his eyes. He had just opened them to glare at John, and the dark eye shadow made his ice blue irises stand out almost distractingly. Well, they were ice blue now, but John was fairly certain that one lifetime wouldn’t have been enough to index all the colours they assumed: all the shades of blue and green, alternated or blended together, sometimes even with golden straws. A constantly changing kaleidoscope. The only fixed element was a tiny dark spot right above his right iris, which John irrationally adored. Well, not _adored_. Liked. Whatever.

Sherlock took another drag and blew it towards John’s face, a smug smirk arching his lips. John waved the smoke away and muttered “prat”. Five seconds later they were both giggling with no particular reason.

“Hey Sherlock” John heard his own voice before he could think twice. Sherlock hummed in response and John somehow found the strength to continue. “You don’t have practice today, do you?”

“Nope”

John cleared his throat. “Fine, well… I was wondering… do you want to come to my place after school? To study a bit together, you know…” Why was he even nervous about this? They already spent a lot of time together. They had never met outside school or the ballet studio before, but it wasn’t something strange, friends did it all the time!

Sherlock’s expression went from confused to shocked before he skilfully schooled it and mumbled a simple “Ok.”

John felt ridiculously happy during the rest of the lunch break, and even during his boring afternoon lessons.

When he rushed out of the front door -walked, not _rushed_ , he wasn’t rushing- he found Sherlock waiting for him, leaning against a pillar. He threw away the cigarette he was smoking when John came close, and smiled.

“Hey. Ready to go? We can take the bus or walk, it takes more or less the same time since the bus we need doesn’t pass often. I don’t live too far anyway.”

“I’ve got a motorbike.”

John blinked once. Twice.

“You… you’ve got a motorbike?”

Sherlock looked almost puzzled. “Yes, John, that’s exactly what I meant by ‘I have a motorbike’.”

John couldn’t help himself. He knew he had to look like an idiot, but he was dumbfounded. “Yeah, I… it’s just… I didn’t know it!”

“Of course you didn’t know, I’ve never told you.”

“Yeah, sure.” John tried to stop himself, he really did, but the words slipped out of his mouth. “So, a motorbike?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, clearly exasperated. “Yes, a motorbike. Two wheels, handlebars, engine. Seriously, John, did you hit your head really hard in the last few hours? Why is the idea of a motorbike so baffling?”

John shook himself. Why indeed? “No, yeah, ok, let’s go then.”

He followed Sherlock towards the parking, to a big, black motorbike, and watched as he elegantly threw a long leg over the seat and climbed on. His mouth went inexplicably dry as his gaze slid down the slender figure, al wrapped up in a leather jacket full of studs and pins, tight black jeans and big boots. Straddling that beast of a bike. He felt heat rising to his cheeks when he realised that Sherlock was staring at him and frowning. He was making a fool of himself. Again. He got on as quickly as possible, though definitely less graciously than Sherlock.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t got a helmet. I won’t run, promise.” Sherlock smirked at him over his shoulder and turned the engine on.

A sudden realisation finally hit John, his mind clearly slowed down by the muddle of emotions he was still struggling to identify. “Sherlock… you’re sixteen, how can you possibly have the license to drive this thing?” Not reassuringly, Sherlock didn’t answer, but for some twisted reason John found himself giggling. “You’re a fucking crazy twat, you know that?”

Sherlock chuckled as well and turned his head to look at him. “That can be taken for granted. Now would you please hold on to me so we can head off?”

Caught up in the moment of flippancy, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s torso and pressed himself against his back. It was only a couple of minutes later, while Sherlock was racing to the address he had been told -and they absolutely needed to discuss the idea of 'not run'-, that John’s hand accidentally slid under Sherlock’s open jacket, and he realised it. He could feel his perfectly shaped abs through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, the pressure of his body against his own chest, his scent driving him crazy. His eyes set on that long, pale neck, and he felt the animalistic need to taste it, lick it, kiss it, suck it, bite it, and _oh fuck_.

He was so, so very fucked.

He closed his eyes and bit his lips. He had tried. He really had. Because wanting to snog your friend against the lockers, wanting to touch him, and take him, to worship him, to tear him apart and putting him back together... it was wrong. Very wrong, because Sherlock clearly wasn't interested. And how could John blame him? Sherlock was perfect with his stunning body, his deep hot voice and his fucking brillance, and he was just... John. So he had really tried to ignore that twitching in his stomach, because maybe if he didn’t acknowledge it to himself, if he didn’t wallow in this stupid crush, it would pass. But it hadn’t. And what the fuck was he supposed to do now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amusing thing is that I wasn't planning to make John realise it so early, but come on, Sherlock on a motorbike is hot as fuck, how could he not? I had to force myself not to make him have a boner pressed against Sherlock's arse during the ride!!


	7. Chapter 7

When the heat of John’s arms and chest left him Sherlock shivered, barely resisting to the urge to grab his hands and pull him close again. Which made no sense: it was quite a warm day, he wasn’t supposed to need anything more than his leather jacket. He pushed the thought aside, he would examine his absurd physical responses later.

He followed John through the front door of a small detached house. It looked cosy, definitely more so than Sherlock’s huge and usually empty mansion. He turned towards John, who seemed a bit unsure.  “It’s lovely.” He said, with the most reassuring smile he could provide.

John relaxed and started to show him round. “Well, there’s not much to see but… this is the living room… a bathroom, there’s another one upstairs, with the bedrooms… and here’s the kitchen.” He turned the kettle on and leaned against the counter. “Thank God there’s no one at home, they’ll be back tomorrow afternoon, so you don’t have to meet my adorable family.”

John smiled sadly and looked down, and Sherlock would have desperately wanted to know what to do. He knew what happened under that roof, he had deduced long ago, but it was different now. It was John, his John, looking miserable, and Sherlock would have given anything to make it stop. He felt the impulse to hold him tight, to kiss the top of his head, but that probably wasn’t something friends do. Damn, what would a good friend do, what could Sherlock do?

But then the moment passed as it had come: John looked back at him, and he seemed to be happy again, and Sherlock thanked all the gods he didn’t believe in.

They chatted of nothing while the tea brewed, than carried the cups upstairs, to John’s bedroom. It was a bit messy, but definitely not as much as Sherlock’s. Clothes and books discarded here and there, rumpled bedspread, but not much more. However, the amount of new data about John Watson was almost overwhelming: his habits, favourite books, music, films… and everything was important, everything needed to be stored in his Mind Palace.

“Sherlock? Are you alright?” His attention snapped back to John and his concerned frown.

“Yes… yes, I was… I… Sorry.” Sherlock blushed and looked away.

“You were deducing, weren’t you?” Sherlock nodded slightly, feeling strangely guilty. “And what have you deduced?”

Sherlock hesitated. This could turn out to be a bad idea, but after all John seemed to be different from everyone else: he didn’t get angry for his deductions, he was… fascinated? So he started from simple things: his favourite books, his habit of studying on the bed -he passed over other things he clearly did on it, if the stain on the bedspread was what Sherlock suspected-, his favourite takeaway restaurant -and he suggested a definitely cheaper and better Chinese-, his favourite movies…

“You’re particularly fond of this franchise, both the books and the movies. Clearly a fantasy, basing on the titles and the pictures on the spines, and-”

“Wait wait wait, what do you mean by ‘clearly a fantasy’? Haven’t you ever even _heard_ of them?”

Sherlock frowned. John looked positively shocked, so it had to be something of common knowledge. “Nope” he said, popping the final p. “Or maybe I have and I’ve deleted it. Fantasy is nonsensical.”

John’s eyes were open so wide that Sherlock feared they could pop out of their sockets. “But… but Sherlock, this is not any fantasy, this is Harry Potter!! How can you not know about Harry Potter?” Sherlock looked down. He had never cared of what people thought of his tastes, but for some reason he didn’t want to disappoint John.  But a soft chuckle made him look up again, into John’s big, blue eyes. “Oh, come on Sherlock, I’m sorry, don't panic, it's not the end of the world. There is something you don't know, it must be an unusual feeling for you but there's always a first time.” Sherlock found himself giggling with him. How could John always make him feel so at ease? “But we have to do something about this unforgivable lack of yours. How long can you stay today?”

Sherlock had to bit down a grin. Was John suggesting to watch a film together? It would seem so. Sherlock had never been particularly fond of movies, but still the idea felt really nice. “I don’t have a curfew, there is no one at home these days.”

John beamed at him. “Great, then listen to my plan: we’re going to do our homework as quickly as possible, then call that Chinese you were talking about and order a disgusting lot of fried stuff and eat it on the sofa while we watch the first movie. Maybe  also the second if we have enough time. What do you think?”

Sherlock tried, he really tried to repress his grin, but how could he? So, this is what it felt to have a friend? He had never thought that it could be so perfect, so fulfilling, so… warm. He felt this strange warmth, right in the middle of his chest. “It sounds good.”

It turned out that studying with John was not as boring as doing it alone. They were sitting on John’s double bed -John had insisted that Sherlock could use his desk, but he had rejected the offer-. Homework was dull, and Sherlock was by far too intelligent for his classes, but this way he could spend half of his time studying the way John’s hair reflected the light. Undoubtedly more interesting. He would have loved to extend his study to John’s eyes, but that would have meant being caught staring, which was probably a bit not good.

Despite his simultaneous chromatic study, Sherlock finished his homework before John, so he pushed his books aside and laid down to rest his back. The movement drew John’s attention, and suddenly sapphire-blue eyes were settled on his own and it was even more amazing than he thought. They didn’t only reflect the light, the seemed to radiate it. It was gorgeous.

And probably inappropriate, because according to his very limited knowledge friends are not supposed to behave like a girl with a crush. And most of all, he didn’t have a crush, not really. It was just… He wasn’t used to this, to friendship, to someone who seemed to actually care about him, and he was letting himself be overwhelmed by the new feeling. And he really shouldn’t. He shouldn’t get involved, not more than how he already was.

But yet, those eyes were absolutely amazing. And so was the smile that lingered on John’s lips as he resumed his homework.

When, at last, John closed his books and threw them carelessly into his bag, Sherlock rolled out of the bed and followed him downstairs. They called the restaurant -Mrs Hudson would have fainted, had she known the amount of fried food he was going to eat; she always tried to make him eat healthily- and got ready for the evening.

In half an hour they were sitting on the sofa eating fried wonton and chicken lo mein, and a man with a long white beard was switching off the streetlights in Privet Drive. 

Less than another hour and John had paused the movie to explain the characteristics of the four houses, unforgivably omitted in the movie, claiming that Sherlock would certainly be a Ravenclaw. Pointless as all of this was, talking about what they would be if they lived in a fictional world, Sherlock couldn’t help answering that John would be a perfect Gryffindor. The red shade that his cheeks had just gained would have also matched the house colours, but Sherlock decided to keep  this last observation for himself.

Three hours, a disc change and an unnumbered multitude of sharp comments about the absurdity of these movies later, Harry, Ron and Hermione were drinking the Polyjuice Potion, and Sherlock and John were sitting a lot closer than before. Not touching, but enough for John to hear Sherlock’s quiet whisper.

“You know, I’ve never done this before.” John looked away from the telly, and Sherlock found he couldn’t held his questioning gaze. “I… I don’t have friends.”

Why had he even said that? It was true, but it made him sound so stupid and weak, didn't it? But John’s voice was so soft when he whispered “You’ve got one.”

Sherlock still couldn't look at him, but he smiled to his lap and relaxed a bit more as the movie went on.

A hand on his shoulder woke him up -he had clearly dozed off at some point- and a gentle whisper threaded its way into his sleepy mind.

“Sherlock. Hey, wake up Sleeping Beauty, the movie is over.”

Sherlock hummed disgruntled and rubbed his eyes. “Mmmhyeah, ‘k. ‘M awake.” He blinked a couple of times, struggling not to fall asleep again. “Guess I’d better go now. Thanks for the-” a yawn forced his way out of him “-evening.”

John chuckled, frowning a bit. “Oh no, I’m not gonna let you drive in this state. It’s late, just stay for the night.”

Sherlock felt suddenly more, much more awake, but he tried not to show it: he didn’t want John to change his mind. “Oh. Ok, I- thank you.”

“Wait, I’ll fetch you some pyjamas. Use the loo upstairs if you need it, it’s more comfortable.”

Ten minutes later, Sherlock was climbing down the stairs, bare-footed, John’s pyjamas a bit too short and loose, but definitely comfortable. John was in the kitchen, in his sleepwear, and beamed when he saw him. He pointed at two cups in front of him, on the counter. “Cuppa?”

Sherlock smiled. All these attentions made his chest ache, which was quite a ridiculous reaction. “Yes, please.”

They drank in silence, then put the cups in the sink. Sherlock headed for the couch and was going to wish him goodnight when John stopped him. “Oh, no, the sofa is awful, you wouldn’t move for a week. And the other bedrooms are… a bit of a mess… but my bed is big enough for both. I can’t promise I’m not a snorer or a kicker, I have no idea, but anything is better than this sofa, this little is certain.” John’s unsure smile faltered. “Sherlock? Are you ok? Is it a problem?”

He knew that he wasn’t answering, and that his eyes were probably disturbingly wide open, but it took him a wile to get a grip. Sleeping next to John. In his bed. With him. All night. With John. Bad, bad idea. He didn’t even know why, but he could hear a wake-up call somewhere in the back of his mind. He tried to smile reassuringly. “Yeah, yeah, sorry, I’m fine. It’s just-” and he was going to say something, to make up an excuse, any excuse. But then John looked at him, and he seemed so hopeful that the words slipped out of his mouth. “Ok, it’s fine, thank you.” _Fuck_. He was going to regret this.  But John was beaming, and Sherlock had to follow him upstairs because what else could he do?

It was quite awkward, actually, laying there stiffly, a careful gap between their bodies, but it was still somehow amazing: John was next to him, Sherlock could hear his breath slowing down as he drifted off, and at last he fell asleep too.

He woke up in the middle of the night and, still half asleep, nuzzled his pillow, holding it tighter. It smelled so good, and it was so warm against his chest, and… oh. Oh _fuck_. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It wasn’t a pillow, it was John bloody Watson and Sherlock was sprawled half atop of him, nestled against his side, head and one arm on his chest. And God, it felt amazing but it was so very not good. Probably every shade of not good. He pulled away, desperately hoping not to waken him, and turned away, as far as possible from the sleeping body next to him.

As he prayed for sleep to take him or for the earth to swallow him, he felt a movement behind him, followed by a warm and solid pressure against his back, a strong arm around his waist and hot breath against the back of his neck. Oh no, no, no, no, this wasn’t fair. It wasn’t John’s fault, he didn’t know what his body was doing, but for God’s sake, Sherlock wasn’t supposed to want it, to crave it so much. But, a little voice inside him said, John didn’t have to know that Sherlock felt like this. Sherlock could keep it from himself, never let him know, and relish these little moments in silence, storing them in his Mind Palace. And moreover, the tempting voice said, it wasn’t like he could do anything to pull away now, could he? John was the one wrapped around him. So he snuggled a bit closer and closed his eyes, letting John’s heartbeat lull him to sleep.

When he woke up again, the bed was empty and noise of flowing water came from the adjacent bathroom. He rolled on the mattress, pressing his face into the pillow. It smelled of John.

God, he was so screwed up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank you all for the support I'm receiving. It means the world to me, and I really hope I'll live up to your expectations <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter could be entitled "How To Make Your Rating Jump To Explicit" or "God I've Missed Writing Porn" :P  
> Hope you enjoy it! :)

_Sherlock is kneeling in front of him. Naked. His inks standing out against his pale skin, fair eyes darkened with lust and plump lips slightly parted, only inches from John’s achingly hard cock. He's completely still, looking like a predator about to attack his prey, hands on John’s bare thighs. John grabs his own prick and, ever so slowly, he brushes the head against those sinful lips, smearing them with precum. And still, Sherlock doesn't move. He just looks at him, almost defiantly. After what seems like ages, his tongue darts out and his eyes flutter closed in a look of filthy pleasure that sends a shiver down John’s spine. He licks and bit his lips, again and again, until they are clean but swollen; then he looks up again, pale irises devoured by his dilated pupils, and opens his mouth, his breath hot against John’s cock. And again, he stops still. John’s fingers brush his shaved temples and move to the back of his head, entangling in his unruly curls, and all he does is parting his lips a bit more, invitingly. Slowly, ever so slowly, John pushes the tip of his cock through them, letting Sherlock’s warm, wet mouth engulf it. He rolls his hips tentatively, still not sure that Sherlock can really want_ this _, and he's rewarded by a gorgeous flick of tongue. So he pushes deeper, and when he pulls back Sherlock sucks, hard. A groan escapes from John’s throat as he clenches his fists tighter, and Sherlock’s hair has to be sensitive, very sensitive, because a loud moan vibrates around John’s shaft. And then everything goes blurry. There are his hands gripping inky curls, holding Sherlock's head in place. There are big eyes never leaving his own. There are noises, groans, cries, Sherlock’s muffled moans and his own resounding ones. There are long, thin fingers pressing against his thighs. But actually, all he can feel is Sherlock’s mouth. The whole world is reduced to that: warmth, wetness, a gentle scrape of teeth, a swirling tongue and the tip of his cock hitting the back of Sherlock's throat. And it's hard, and fast, and rough, and then heath is pooling in his stomach and he's coming, buried deep inside Sherlock._

* * *

John opened his eyes, panting heavily against the back of Sherlock's neck. Oh, no. No, no, no, no, please. He didn't dare to look down, but it wasn't necessary: he could feel an unmistakable damp spot in his pants. Christ, it was a fucking nightmare.

Great fucking idea, inviting your friend you've just realised you have a crush on to spend the night in your bed, and then spooning him, dreaming of fucking his face and.. Oh God, he had humped his leg, hadn't he?

Fuck.

Fucking fuck.

He was an idiot. No, he was way beyond idiocy.

Shit, he could only hope that Sherlock was still asleep. He pulled away carefully and leaned forward to check. Oh, thank God! Sherlock was breathing slowly and softly, eyes closed and lips slightly parted.

He was breathtakingly beautiful, actually. And, John realised, no one else was allowed to see him like this. Not only without make-up and piercings, but without the harsh mask he always hid behind. Always, except when he was with John. Sherlock didn’t let anyone see him like this but John. He felt an almost overwhelming wave of affection for the boy next to him, and _that_ was the moment he suspected that he could be even more screwed than he had thought. But he pushed the thought aside. Not now. Now he had a pair of blamingly stained pyjama bottoms to get rid of and a lot of indecent thoughts to lock away somewhere in the back of his mind.

He rubbed his hands on his face and stood up, grabbed some clean clothes and headed for the bathroom.

Half an hour later, after a cold shower and long minutes of staring at his own reflection in the mirror, he mustered up his courage. Sherlock wasn’t in bed anymore, so he went downstairs and found him curled up on the sofa, two cups of tea on the table in front of him.

“‘Morning” he said, desperately hoping that his voice and face wouldn’t betray his utter embarrassment.

* * *

 John Watson was a continuous surprise. Sometimes it was the way he reacted to Sherlock’s oddities, as if they were something endearing instead of upsetting. Sometimes it was the way he made Sherlock want to talk, to smile, to laugh. Sometimes it was the way he managed to persuade Sherlock to do stupid things like eating. Sometimes it was the way his smile made Sherlock’s guts quiver, clench, jump, melt, burn.

This time it was the way he lingered next to the stairway, his hair wet, his skin damp, a white t-shirt a bit too tight for his muscular shoulders, a pair of discoloured jeans, an insecure smile -Sherlock wondered for a moment what in the world could make strong,  amazing John insecure- and, cherry on top, those big, dark blue eyes fixed on Sherlock. It was the way all of this made his brain jam up.

When John looked away, Sherlock suddenly remembered something about how to use his vocal cords, jaw and tongue to communicate his thoughts, and he managed to babble a "Good morning."

John sat next to him and they drank their tea in companionable silence -thank God John didn't ask anything about the night because he would have definitely burnt down with embarrassment- and then went upstairs to get ready. John lent him a t-shirt, and Sherlock couldn't help noticing that it was one of his favourite ones. Camouflage: it practically screamed John's will to join the army. He wore it a lot, so John's friends would probably recognise it, and people might talk, but John seemed to be fine with it and Sherlock really couldn't be arsed to care.

He waited to be alone in the bathroom to bury his face in it. John's scent was faint, t-shirt had naturally been washed since the last time he had used it, but it still lingered a bit. 

Oh, for God's sake, what the hell was wrong with him? When had he become so pathetic?

He got ready frantically, trying to think as little as possible -not easy when you have an overdeveloped, hyperactive mind- and headed downstairs. 

John was already there, leaning against a wall. "Ready?" He said with a bright smile. Sherlock nodded and followed him outside. 

On their way to school, Sherlock wished that John would hold to him tighter, his chest pressed against Sherlock's back as he had done the day before -as he had done that night, the voice in the back of his mind said- but he scolded himself. He had to stop with those pointless thoughts. John didn't want it. On their first ride he was anxious, and that night he wasn't conscious, otherwise he would have never clinged to him that way. If he had known the effect it had had on Sherlock - if, God forbid, he ever found it out... But no, there was no reason to worry. Sherlock was a fantastic actor, he was perfectly able to hide a stupid crush. He couldn't let it ruin their friendship.

So, when they parted, he waved and smiled as he always did. Or, at least, if any of his unusual, unrequited feelings transpired on his face, John didn't seem to notice, as he beamed at him with his usual fondness. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #not dead  
> Sorry it took me so long, real life is a bit demanding sometimes, but luckily I have those few free minutes on the underground so... ta-daaaa!! Hope you like it ^.^

He shouldn’t have gone, he really shouldn’t. But John had asked him, and how could Sherlock say no when John asked with those big blue eyes and bright smile? So now he was there, surrounded by a crowd of shouting, sweating idiots. One of them had even tried to hit on him. Evidently gay, with that level of personal grooming and that frankly awful pair of bright pink pants, very visible above the waistline of his skin-tight jeans. And, in case there was still any doubt, he had slipped a note into Sherlock’s pocket: a phone number and a scribbled ‘Jim - xx’. Clearly, the boy had a good gaydar but he had never heard anything about what a crazy, rude freak he was, since he had tried to approach him with such a dull series of clichéd pick up lines.

He shouldn’t have gone, but he couldn’t run away now. Or could he? After all, would have John even noticed? Definitely not, there was the whole school and a remarkable number of half-naked cheerleaders, there was no way he would really care about Sherlock’s presence.

But when he put out his cigarette and stood up, the whole crowd did it as well, clapping and shouting and cheering, as the team jogged out of the locker room. 

And if the heat flaring up under his skin was anything indicative, he was dangerously close to spontaneous combustion. That t-shirt was at least two sizes too small, clinging illegally tight to John’s shoulders, and those shorts… For God’s sake, they could as well be pants for how little they covered John’s strong, muscular thighs. And _of course_ , as if the rest of his impossibly perfect body wasn't enough,[ the uniform had to be blue](http://elessar-undomiel.tumblr.com/post/131741554144/chemical-defect-visual-aid-n4-johns-rugby) and make John’s eyes stand out even from so far away as they scanned the crowd and -unexpectedly- halted on Sherlock. John beamed at him and, despite the increasing warmth of his cheeks , Sherlock couldn't help grinning back. He hastily sat down when he realised he was the only one still on his feet - how long had they been smiling at each other? 

John went to the centre of the field for the coin toss, a voice announced something that Sherlock didn't quite understand, far too distracted by John's hair ruffled by the wind, and the game began. He wasn't a rugby expert -he had read something the previous days but clearly not enough to understand what was happening exactly-, but John was undoubtedly stunning, tossing and catching the ball flawlessly, tackling opponents and scoring point after point. As the match went on, Sherlock began to feel very, very uncomfortable: the vision of an increasingly sweaty and muddy John seemed to go straight to his crotch, and by the end of it he was achingly hard. Dammit, what the hell was wrong with him?

He was saved by the final whistle, that made the whole crowd stand to cheer the winning team. He chuckled at the sight of John jumping and flipping around the field, a bright toothy grin fixed on his face. If victory meant such a happy John, Sherlock would soon became an enthusiastic supporter. 

However, the chuckle turned into cough when John went to the bench and poured a bottle of water onto his head. For God's sake, that couldn't possibly be legal, the way the water dripped from his soaking hair down his back was absolutely pornographic. 

And apparently the universe hated him fiercely, because John was jogging towards him. Sherlock stood up, thanking any god ever worshipped by the human kind for his long wide t-shirt, and just to be sure he held his leather jacket in a way that hopefully hid the bulge in his trousers completely. John dried his face with the hem of his t-shirt, revealing some frankly inhuman abs, and leaned over the barrier, beaming at him. 

"You came!"

Sherlock frowned. "Of course I did. You had asked me to." And John should have known by then that Sherlock wasn't remotely able to say no to him. 

"Yeah, I had." John looked down and smiled at his feet. "I wasn't sure you would, though, it's... not exactly you cup of tea, is it? But I'm happy you're here. Did you enjoy it?"

God, yes, he had, far too much. "Well... the game is quite dull, and the fans are utter idiots, but you were very good." And his thighs were probably illegal in several countries.

John looked up at him, frowning a bit. Maybe he had gone too far, he wanted to seem indifferent but he had probably been rude. He opened his mouth to apologise -not even realising that it was something he never, ever did- but the words died out in his mouth at John's sudden burst of laughter. "That," John answered, "was the most concealed compliment I've ever received. But thank you." He was smiling, his eyes sparkling. Not angry. At all. He had understood the real meaning of what Sherlock meant -well, thankfully not all of it- like no one else ever did. Sherlock bit his lower lip to stifle a grin.

"So." John leaned further over the barrier "Now that you've survived this boring and pointless social ritual, what are your plans for the evening?"

Sherlock chuckled. "I guess I'll think of some experiment to do. I wonder what colour meat acquires when it rots in a box full of-" He frowned when John silenced him with a hand on his mouth, and pouted a bit.

"Wrong answer. No rotten meat for you tonight. I want to celebrate, since I've been so _very good_ , so now I'm having a shower as quickly as possible and then we're going to have dinner somewhere. No takeaway, I want to go to a real place this time. You pick."

Sherlock's eyes went wide above John's hand. That was unexpected, how was he supposed to get through the whole evening with John after everything that had crossed his mind during the match? God, he needed a good excuse to run away. And a cold shower. A very cold shower. "I- I don't think that..." He stuttered when John released his mouth. "I mean, your- your mates... they... won't they want to celebrate with you? And you... don't- don't you want to celebrate with them?"

John looked at his feet, smiling softly and scratching the back of his head. "Yeah, I guess they'd want to, but I don't care. I want to... I want to celebrate with you. If you're amenable, that is."

"I... It's not that I'm not amenable..." Sherlock tried to steady his voice, but it kept sounding soft and trembling as he tried to find a way to avoid something he really, really wanted to do. "It's just... Your friends..."

John frowned. "Who the hell cares? _You_ are my friend. Come on... Please, Sherlock. For me?"

Damn. That was a cheap shot. Sherlock muttered something that probably sounded like an 'ok', but he really couldn't stop the grin that spread on his face when John beamed at him.

"Great, meet me at the front gate, ok? I'll be there soon. And think of where you want to go."

And before Sherlock could back down he was heading for the locker room, showing off his gorgeous arse. For God's sake. He needed to do something to stop his train of thoughts. He tried to picture in his mind Mycroft with his mouth full of cake and found that it worked quite well. Good to know, he had the feeling that he would need an efficient turn-off. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see I've added a "Non-Graphic Violence" tag. I don't think I'll ever write graphic violence because it's something I'm definitely not comfortable with, but I warn you that there is -and there will be- a bit of non-graphic/implied violence. Just so you know.

John checked his hair in the mirror one last time, grabbed his bag and rushed out of the changing room. He managed to keep himself from running like a desperate teenager with a crush - even though that was exactly what he was - and walked as calmly as possible towards the exit. Too focused on his attempt to maintain some self control, he didn't notice the muffled noises until he turned the corner.

He gave a start when he saw Sherlock held still by Sebastian Wilkes, his arms gripped tightly behind his back, his legs kicking the air in a useless attempt to get free. That bulky idiot of Moran was towering over him, one hand grasping Sherlock's t-shirt, the other clenched and raised, ready to hit Sherlock's already bleeding face. It didn't reach the target, though: John threw himself at Moran, blind rage and rushing adrenaline compensating his clearly unfavourable complexion. If asked, John wouldn't have been able to explain how he had achieved it, but some seconds of fight later Moran was pinned against the lockers, arms held back painfully by a livid John. Meanwhile, Sherlock had taken advantage of Wilkes' distraction and managed to get free and wrestle him to the ground.

John's voice was chilling in his calmness. "If you dare to lay a finger on him again, if you just look at him, I swear that I will get ready for my next Biology test by breaking every bone in your body while naming them." He pushed Moran's arm upwards further, making him grit his teeth in pain. "Did I make myself clear?" Moran nodded reluctantly. John released him and hissed through his teeth: "Get the fuck out of my sight."  Both Moran and Wilkes ran away, the former shooting murderous glances over his shoulder.

John crouched hurriedly next to Sherlock, his rage quickly replaced by frenzied concern. "Are you alright?" His eyes were wide open as he checked Sherlock's injuries: his nose bleed had already stopped, but he had a cut on his left cheekbone and a split lip, and God knew what else. He felt a wave of panic, something he wasn't used to, at all. "I'll take you to the A&E." He began to ramble, his hands roaming absent-mindedly around Sherlock's body. "You could have a concussion, you could have something broken... did they hit you in the stomach? God, what if they've damaged some organ? Your ribs, are your ribs alright? I'm going to fucking kill them, those fucking-"

"John." His eyes snapped up to Sherlock's, and he found wonder and concern. Sherlock's hands had grabbed his own, and John blushed realising that he had been frantically touching Sherlock's face and torso the whole time. "John, please, calm down." John tried to focus on those big blue eyes and on his own breathing. Sherlock caressed the back of his hands soothingly with his thumb. "I'm fine. I swear, I don't need the A&E. I'm just a bit sore, but nothing broken, nothing serious."

Sherlock smiled reassuringly, letting go of his hands, and John rubbed them on his face. "I'm sorry, I think... I panicked. Sorry. You sure you're alright?" Sherlock nodded. "Ok. But I want to check your injuries anyway. Let's go to my place, I have the first aid kit and everything."

Sherlock opened his mouth to complain but John made his most adamant face, and Sherlock knew better than trying to argue with his stubborn friend, so he sighed theatrically and let John help him to his feet.

When they got to John's house, the lights were already on. He hesitated on the doorstep: he hadn't considered the fact that his whole family would be at home. But Sherlock's wounds needed to be nursed, so he braced himself and opened the door.

He usually went went directly to his room, avoiding his family as much as possible, but Sherlock was his best friend, and he couldn't put this moment back forever, so he walked reluctantly into the living room. His father was watching telly at annoyingly high volume, his mother was reading a gossip magazine and Harry, half drunk, was clumsily trying to type something on her phone. John took a deep breath and cleared his throat. "Hey. I'm back." No response. "There is Sherlock too." He hadn't talked much about him with his family, not wanting them to ruin the best thing in his life just like they ruined everything else, but he had expected something more than his mother's distracted 'mmh'.

Sherlock shifted on his feet, fidgeting slightly with the hem of his t-shirt. "Hello. It's a real pleasure to meet you." John could feel the edge of insecurity in his voice, and he desperately wished he lived in another family. He imagined a mother that would smile broadly at Sherlock and tell him how happy she was to meet him at last. He imagined a father that would shake his hand firmly and ask him how he was. He imagined a sister that would greet him cheerfully and talk about ballet with him. But his father didn't even acknowledge his presence, his mother grumbled "Hi" without as much as looking away from her bloody magazine, and Harry, apparently more than just  _half_  drunk, struggled to focus Sherlock's figure and, at least, mumbled something that resembled a "You too".

John looked at them for a bunch of seconds with obvious disappointment and more than a hint of disgust, then grabbed Sherlock's hand and dragged him upstairs, muttering to himself all the while. "How was the match, John? Fantastic, I was sure you would win! Oh, hello Sherlock, we couldn't wait to meet you, it's such a pleasure!" Sherlock's hand held his own tighter and John sighed, trying to collect himself. "I'm sorry..." he whispered, looking at Sherlock and meeting his concerned gaze. "I'm sorry, it's just... It shouldn't be like this. Sometimes I hate them." He looked away, then forced himself to focus on Sherlock and smiled tightly. "Ok, well... you can go and sit on my bed while I fetch the stuff. And take off your shirt, I want to check your ribs."

He went to the loo and leaned against the sink, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He breathed in, then out, and pushed away everything but Sherlock. Gorgeous, perfect Sherlock. Who, at the moment, was probably sitting on his bed, bare-chested, all that expanse of creamy skin covered in tattoos in full sight. John couldn't keep him waiting, could he? He grinned idiotically, grabbed the first aid kit and headed for the bedroom.

He stopped still on the doorway, almost letting the metal box fall. Yes, Sherlock is on his bed. Yes, he's taken his shirt off. Yes, he is breathtakingly beautiful. But no, John hadn't expected to see that big dark-red bruise on the left side of his abdomen. Hid giddiness disappeared suddenly, his head almost spinning.His voice was little more than a breath: "God, what have they done?"

John got closer, kneeling between Sherlock's legs, and looked into his wide-open eyes. "Don't worry, I know what I'm doing. I need to check your ribs, it will hurt a bit but I'll be as gentle as possible. Ok?" Sherlock nodded and John brushed his fingers against Sherlock's pale skin. He gradually increased the pressure, paying attention to Sherlock's reactions, his grimaces and hisses to evaluate his pain. He reached out, grabbed an instant ice pack, and squeezed it. "Your ribs are alright," he said, placing the bag against the bruise, "but hold this here for a while while I take care of your face." He tried not to think about the light brush of Sherlock's fingers against his own and focused on his task. 

He cleaned and disinfected the cut on Sherlock's sharp cheekbone and his split lip, feeling his fair eyes fixed on him but doing his best not to return the gaze, because hiding his feelings was already hard enough as it was. He applied a thin coat of cream to prevent scarring and told Sherlock to move the ice pack to his face. 

When he ran out of excuses to touch he pulled away and got on his feet, his legs sore after kneeling for so long. He could be quite proud of himself after all: despite spending almost half an hour kneeling between Sherlock's spread thighs, he had managed to focus on his enough to avoid a hard-on, and not once his gaze had shifted to Sherlock's crotch. His self control was making progress in leaps and bounds. 

Sherlock put his shirt back on - which was a luck, because despite that bruise he was stunningly beautiful and now that he had nothing to keep his mind busy John risked to push him down into the mattress and snog him senseless. Which was a bit not good. John cleared his throat, trying not to appear too awkward and guilty. "So, what do you want to do now? If you don't feel like going out we can order in. Or... I mean, if you want to go back home it's fine, I understand..."

Sherlock looked at his lap and scratched the back of his head, ruffling the black curls of his mohawk. "Well, I had already thought of a place I wanted to show you..." He peered up through long black eyelashes and smiled. "And we can't let those idiots ruin your celebration, can we?" 

John beamed at him, forgetting all his worries, and helped him up. They rushed downstairs, still hand in hand and giggling for no reason, said goodbye to John's parents -who barely acknowledged them- and climbed on Sherlock's motorbike. John held himself to Sherlock's hips to avoid his bruise, and if at some point he nuzzled the crook of his neck none of them pointed it out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, it takes me more than I hoped to write a chapter, but here it is at last!! :D I hope there are no typos because I'm a bit sleepy so I might have missed something while re-reading xD  
> And I hope you enjoyed this chapter. A bit sad, but I tried to make up with some fluff every now and then! :P


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! :) Sorry it took me so long to update, the last couple of weeks have been such a chaos! And this chapter was quite important for me, I didn't want to mess it up. So here it is, I hope it's worth the wait ;)
> 
> N.B. As you can see, I've added the "Implied/Referenced Drug Use".

Sherlock took his helmet off his ruffled his flattened mohawk, glaring at John as if it was all his fault if his style was irremediably compromised. Well, to be honest it was. John had politely suggested him to use a helmet, and then, at Sherlock's not-so-polite answer that he didn't want to use that stupid, boring thing, he had stifled a backtalk and asked it as a personal favour. "Please, Sherlock, for me!" he had asked and, despite a lot of grumbling and fussing, the following day Sherlock's curly head was protected by a big black helmet. Which, John noticed, was quite fucking hot when Sherlock held it under his arm, especially if coupled with his leather jacket, in addition to the undeniable benefit of keeping safe that irritatingly smart head of his.

With a satisfied smirk, John followed Sherlock into the restaurant. It was nice and cosy inside, with a soft warm lighting and very few customers. A waiter showed them a spot near the entrance and they sat on the comfy corner couch, laying their jackets on the backrest.

A tall, sturdy man approached them and patted Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock! Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house, for you  _and_  for your date."

John felt heat spreading on his face. _Date_? No, he wasn't his bloody date, and it was already hard enough without people rubbing it in. He knew that Sherlock wasn't interested at all, in anyone actually. He had seen him reject advances from both girls and boys, either ignoring them at all or looking at them in utter disgust, and sure as hell he didn't want that stare to be addressed to him. So before Sherlock could answer, shattering John's heart and stomping on it, he blurted out: "I'm not his date!" 

He didn't dare to look at Sherlock: he really, really didn't want to see his reaction. Thank God, the chatty man spared them an awkward silence. "This boy got me off a murder change."

Quickly forgetting the recent embarrassing exchange, John's head snapped back to Sherlock's face, questioningly. Murder charge? Sherlock shrugged. "This is Angelo." John shook the hand that the man - the owner of the place, according to the sign on the front door- was offering. "Three years ago I successfully proved to the police that at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder Angelo was in a completely different part of the town, housebreaking." 

John beamed at him the way he couldn't help doing when Sherlock did something particularly smart. "Fantastic!" 

Angelo chuckled and threw him a knowing glance, which made John blush and look away. Was he so obvious after all? "I'll get a candle for the table, it's more romantic."

 _Shit_. "I'm not his date!" he almost shouted at Angelo's back as the man walked away.

He busied himself with the menu to avoid further awkwardness until Angelo came back with a big red candle in a holder, set it on the table and lit it. "Thank you." he mumbled. He ordered bucatini all'Amatriciana and turned expectantly to Sherlock, who waved a hand dismissively, muttering something resembling an 'I don't need to eat'. John ignored him altogether and ordered four-cheese cannelloni for him. Angelo winked and headed for the kitchen.

Sherlock glared at him and crossed his hands, pouting a bit. "You're not my mother, John, and I'm sixteen, I can decide by myself whether I want to eat!"

John chuckled fondly. "You're acting like a five-year-old and I'm treating you as such. So you're not going back home until you eat your dinner.

Sherlock's pouty mood didn't last long and, distracted by their chatter, he even ended up stealing several forkfuls of John's pasta. Not that John minded. Quite the contrary: as much as he loved good food, it was nothing compared with the satisfaction of seeing Sherlock eating, often trying to talk around a mouthful, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

Sherlock talked about his choices for the Christmas ballet, about his Chemistry lessons and his dream of becoming a consulting detective. John talked about rugby, and rock music, and his doubts concerning the army - because he really wanted to go, but also really didn't want to. Sherlock talked about his violin and that time he got his first tattoo, the sound holes on his lower belly. And when he got to the end of the very amusing story about how Sherlock's annoying brother found it out and threw a fit, John couldn't help himself.

"Tell me about the others." He blurted out without thinking. He didn't want to be nosy, but it was something he thought about quite a lot, and this seemed a good moment to ask. "[Your tattoos](http://elessar-undomiel.tumblr.com/post/129776218079/chemical-defect-visual-aid-n1-this-could-be), what do they mean?"

Sherlock scratched the back of his neck. Was he nervous? Maybe it hadn't been a good idea after all, John shouldn't have asked. "Well, the one on my shoulder is a beehive. I love bees, always have. It's stupid, I know, but they're intelligent animals. Definitely more so than most of our school, anyway." John chuckled at his slightly rude comment, and Sherlock smirked. 

"Sounds cool." John said with a smile. "When you'll get too old for that detective job you could go to the country and keep some bees. I could give you a hand, if you'll let me. But you will have to teach me how to handle them, or I'll be covered in stings by the end of the first day."

Sherlock chuckled for a moment, then his smile faltered and he looked at his lap. "John... I think we both know that I'd have to be ridiculously naive to believe that you could put up with me for so long."

John felt his heart sinking. He reached out and put his hand on Sherlock's. They weren't used to physical contact, but he felt it was the right thing to do this time. "Sherlock," he said softly, "please, tell me you don't actually believe that." Sherlock remained quiet, biting his inner cheek. "Sherlock, that's bullshit, okay? Listen, I'm not going to say that I'm one hundred percent sure that we won't grow apart, you never know where life will bring you. But you're my best friend. I'm not putting up with you, I really like you, both the brilliant-genius part and the annoying-dickhead part, and I'll do anything I can to never let that happen."

Sherlock's head had snapped up at some point during his speech, and he was now staring at him with wide-open eyes and an unreadable expression. He remained silent for a while, but Sherlock's stare was starting to make him feel uncomfortable. Had he crossed some line with that speech? Had he given himself away? He couldn't remember what he had said exactly, but something had clearly shocked Sherlock. He pulled his hand away. "That's getting a bit scary now."

Sherlock seemed to shake himself and cleared his throat. "So, in fact... You- you mean..." Oh, shit. He had understood it, hadn't he? Damn. John prayed for the earth to swallow him. But after all he hadn't really declared his feelings he could still deny it, right? "I'm your... Best... Friend?"

John opened his mouth to deny it, to say that no, he wasn't in love with Sherlock, and that he knew that Sherlock wasn't into this sort of things, when he was hit by the meaning of Sherlock's words. He smiled fondly: for a genius, Sherlock could be such an idiot sometimes. "Yeah, 'course you are. 'Course you're my best friend." 

A wide grin spread on Sherlock's face, making deep wrinkles appear at the corner of his eyes, and John couldn't help beaming back at him. God, he was so beautiful when he smiled.

Sherlock bit his lip and took a deep breath. "So... Er- about the other tattoos... They're chemical formulas, I guess that much was clear. And..." He looked away, hesitating, and John interrupted him. 

"Sherlock, you don't have to tell me. If it makes you feel uncomfortable or anything, I don't want you to feel pressured." He said with a reassuring smile, but Sherlock shook his head. 

"No, it's just... It's something I'm not proud of. But I want you to know, I really do." John nodded and let him speak. "They're my addictions. Nicotine. You already know that one. Adrenaline, quite clear as well. And..." He took another deep steadying breath, but his voice shook a bit when he continued. "Heroine." John frowned in confusion, as if he wasn't sure he had heard correctly. He had, he knew he had, but the thought was so staggering that his mind didn't seem to grasp it. He didn't know what to say, he just let Sherlock go on. "I had a... a bad period." He said, staring into the void. "I was 13, and my brain wouldn't stop spinning. Drugs seemed to help. Cannabis, at first, then cocaine, but soon I settled on heroin. My parents and my brother were always too busy to even notice it. I didn't like junkie dens, so I used to break into empty houses. One day I was in my favourite one, in Baker Street, when the landlady came in. Mrs Hudson." He forced a smile and looked at John. "Don't ask me why, but she put in her head that she would help me, and so she did. She kept me company when I felt too alone and she taught me a bit of ballet. I found out that it helped me slowing my brain down almost as much as drugs, without the obvious downsides, and she said that she would have given me real lessons if I had cleaned up. So I did. I'm clean, John, I swear." He was almost pleading now, on the verge of panic, looking down. "I've been for two years. I should have told you before but please, you must believe me-"

"Sherlock." John interrupted him: it was no use for Sherlock to start panicking. His hand grabbed Sherlock's again. "I do believe you. And thank you for telling me, I know it's not easy to talk about these things. Hey, look at me." Sherlock looked up, his eyes full of shame. "Listen, you made a mistake. A huge mistake, I won't sugar the pill, and you've risked so much. But it's over now, and you have Mrs Hudson, and ballet, and me, and I'm sure that you'll never do it again." He released Sherlock's hand and smiled, relieved to see that the anxiety had left Sherlock's face. "I'll kick your arse to hell and back again if you dare to do something like that again, is that clear?" He teased, and enjoyed Sherlock's soft chuckle.

"I won't, I promise."

John nodded slightly and, now that the tension had melted away, they changed topic smoothly, talking about what an idiot Philip Anderson was. They shared a dessert, both too full to eat a whole serving, but too intrigued by the chocolate tiramisù to turn it down so easily.

When the dish was perfectly clean and their stomachs pleasantly full, they got up and headed for the kitchen. They complimented Angelo for the deliciousness of his cuisine, tried politely to pay for their dinner, thanked him when he firmly refused and said goodbye. 

Oh the way back to the front door John spotted a familiar face sitting at a table. The chair in front of him was empty, but he clearly wasn't alone, if the lit candle and the couple of glasses of wine in front of him meant anything.

"Greg!" He called with a grin, and his rugby mate turned towards him and his eyes widened slightly.  

"John! Hey! Didn't expect to see you here. Didn't you go to the pub with the others?" 

John snorted. "And spend the night watching them trying and failing miserably to chat up some stupid girl to get off with? I'll pass, thank you very much!" 

Greg laughed heartily. "As if you didn't do the exact same thing! Even though, admittedly, you never fail." He added with a wink. 

John felt himself blushing and grimaced. He didn't want Sherlock to think he was a ladies' man, even though it was quite true, and even though Sherlock probably didn't give a fuck about it. But still. "I'm not that much of a charmer, Greg!" He grumbled, earning an amused chuckle from the other boy. "However, this is Sherlock Holmes." He added, pointing at Sherlock who was standing next to him, trying to change the subject. "Sherlock, this is Greg, he's in my rugby team."

Greg's eyes widened again, and a slightly worried expression crossed his face for a fraction of a second before being replaced by a wide and apparently sincere smile as he extended his hand. "Hi mate, it's great to meet you at last! John talks about you all the time."

God, greeting Greg had definitely been the worst idea he'd ever had, would he ever stop making him look like a bloody idiot? And he _didn't_ talk about him all the time. Just... most of it!

Thank God, Sherlock didn't look upset. He shook the hand he was offered and answered with a polite smile. "Nice to meet you, too. I've heard a lot about you."

"Well, that's clearer now." Greg said, looking back at John. "I mean, why you didn't go to the pub and get your post-match shag. Bros before hoes, right?" 

John cringed. "Charming way to put it, Greg. But yeah, I guess that's right. And what about you?" He added with a wink. "It doesn't seem a friendly dinner, does it? Who's the lucky lady? That Molly Hooper girl? I knew that something was happening between the two of you!"

Greg's cheeks turned redder than the wine in his glass, and he looked away, scratching the back of his neck. "No, it's- it's not her. It's- it's just- I mean, I don't think it's someone you know..."

Damn, he looked quite uncomfortable. Fighting his curiosity -and he really was curious to know who could made Gregory Lestrade blush like a schoolgirl- he decided to bugger off. "Alright, well, we'll leave you to your date now. Have fun!"

Greg smiled, clearly relieved. "Yeah, thank you. You too. It was nice to meet you, Sherlock!"

They waved and left, the curiosity still eating John alive. Perhaps his aspiring-consulting-detective friend would be willing to help him investigate a bit: it could be fun, and a bit thrilling to be honest. He liked his life, he really did now that Sherlock was part of it, but sure as hell he was intrigued by the idea of breaking the routine.

* * *

A couple of warm hands covered Sherlock's eyes, and he felt the corners of his mouth twitching upwards on their own accord. He had been alone in that bloody library for two hours, and everything was so awfully boring without John that, instead of studying, he had ended up spending most of the time in his mind palace, wandering around the many rooms dedicated to him. "Guess who?" Whispered the well-known voice from behind him. 

Sherlock chuckled softly. "Oh, this one is hard! I have so many friends, which one are you?"

John pulled away and slumped onto the chair in front of him. "The sexiest!" He answered with a wink.

Sherlock tried to ignore the heat pooling in his crotch and the quivering mess in his stomach and play it cool. "Well, can't argue with that. But Mrs Hudson comes a close second!" He answered with a bright smile.

John kicked him playfully under the table and pulled the books out of his bag, sniggering quietly.

They studied silently until Sherlock's phone buzzed: new message, unknown number. He unlocked it absent-mindedly, most of his focus on John's lips wrapped around the cap of his pen, and opened the attachment.

A picture of a pair of trainers, and a noise that echoed in the library.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoyed this chapter! :)  
> And I apologise in advance: I have an exam in a couple of weeks, so I don't think I'll manage to update before then.
> 
>  **UPDATE (03/12):** I'm so, so, so, so sorry. It will take me a little bit more to post next chapter: a couple of days after I published this one, they stole my phone. Since I usually write on the tube, and the phone I'm using at the moment is completely useless, I haven't written a damn word yet. But now I've done my exam, and I should buy a new phone in a few days, so hopefully it won't take me too long now. Thanks for your patience!  <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here I am!! Sorry it took me so long. For those of you who have missed my recent update, I have a good defence: they stole my phone, so I couldn't write on the tube as I usually did. Plus, stupid exam and real life. But here it is, another one! Hope you enjoy it! ^.^

[Trainers. A pair of ridiculously coloured trainers.](http://www.yomister.com/image/data/0/shoes-discount/Asics-Shoes/Asics-Shoes-Men/Asics-Running-Shoes/Best-Order-New-Products-Asics-8th-VIII-Eighth-Classic-Men-Colorful-Green-Pink-Running-Shoes-Outlet-Online-Shop-USA-990_0.jpg) It was already a mystery how anyone could ever wear those disgustingly bright shoes, but why would they send him a picture?  Spam? Impossible: they weren’t new. Clearly almost obsessively well-kept but definitely old: a bit discoloured, the sole darkened and worn.  A message sent to the wrong number? Maybe. But still, there was something strange, something missing. What about the beeps? What did they even mean? Damn, they were positively creepy. No, something was definitely wrong with this story.

Sherlock looked up and met John’s questioning gaze, turning his mobile towards him. John blinked and frowned, then looked up and, in his eyes, Sherlock saw his same worry.

“What-” John faltered and cleared his throat. “What the hell is that, Sherlock?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “An MMS, John, I thought you could have figured out that much by yourself.” John glared at him and Sherlock sighed theatrically. “Anyway, if you mean _why_ I got the message… I don’t have the faintest.” John’s lips twitched in amusement as he clearly tried not to laugh. “What?”

A soft chuckle escaped from John’s lips. “You’re pouting. You’re upset because you didn’t solve this in a second and you’re pouting. You’re such a big baby, aren’t you?”

Sherlock looked away, his cheeks on fire, and crossed his arms. “I’m not pouting.” He muttered.

John’s smile widened. “Oh yes, you really are.”

“Oh no, I really-”

The sharp sound of the bell startled them, and John’s eyes widened. “Oh shit!” he almost yelled as he gathered his stuff and threw it into his bag, earning several glares from the students around them. “Sorry Sherlock, I have to run, Maths test. Fuck, I’m gonna be late! See you after school, ok?” He stood up and pulled the bag strap over his shoulder. “And don’t solve the case when I’m not around!” He added over his shoulder with a wink, then he dashed away, leaving Sherlock alone in the school library, glaring daggers at his own phone and definitely not pouting.

* * *

Sherlock was waiting for him, leaning against his usual pillar. John opened his mouth to ask him if he had found out anything about the message, but Sherlock rushed towards him, grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the parking, and John knew better than trying to talk to him when he was so sulky.

Sherlock didn’t drive him home: they reached a stunningly posh neighbourhood and parked in front of a huge mansion. [A _really_ huge mansion](http://fm.cnbc.com/applications/cnbc.com/resources/img/editorial/2014/01/23/101359988-stone_mansion.1910x1000.jpg), with walls in grey stone, a ridiculous amount of gigantic windows and a bloody park in front of it.

Sherlock led him through the front door and John stopped still, eyes open wide, looking around and trying to determine if he was awake or it was just a dream, because did places like that actually exist in real life? Could houses really have [those huge staircases, with handrail in wrought iron and a soft carpet and… oh for God’s sake, was that a crystal chandelier?](http://img.shia-labeouf.biz/2015/10/15/spelling-mansion-inside-l-1f4c58c38fc39cb9.jpg)

“Sher- Sherlock?” he breathed out, a bit too dumbfounded to talk. “Is this… is this your place?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You've seen me opening the door with my own keys, I’ll leave you to your own deductions. Seriously, John, sometimes your lack of observance is baffling.” John tried to glare at him, but he was probably still a bit too shocked to succeed. A corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched upwards smugly: impressing John in yet another way was clearly distracting him from moping. Show off. Then Sherlock’s smile softened, and he bit his plump lower lip. “Do you want some tea? Or food, or anything.”

John nodded. “Tea would be great, thank you.”

Sherlock led him through halls and corridors with marble floors, stuccoed ceilings and wooden furniture, to [a kitchen that was almost as big as John’s whole house](https://s3.amazonaws.com/PhenomHome/Images/Luxury+Kitchens/469609889.jpg). John followed enraptured the swift movements of Sherlock’s long, thin fingers, shaking himself when the boy handed him out a steaming cup.

As they walked quietly to Sherlock’s room, John realised that, even though they hadn’t come across anyone and the house seemed silent and empty, there might as well have been hundreds of people chatting in some distant room: they probably wouldn’t hear them anyway. Damn, the place was huge!

Sherlock lingered for a fraction of a second in front of a door before pushing it open and stepping aside to let John in.

Sherlock’s room was quite different from the rest of the house. It was simple, with a periodic table and a pirate flag hanging on the wall, books and chemistry tools scattered messily on a desk and on the floor and a violin case on the bed. John tried to take it all in, every little detail: a shelf full of books about bees, a collection of old LPs, Sherlock’s ballet shoes on top of a pile of clothes piled on a chair, a book on the nightstand. Heat bubbled in John’s chest when he read the title: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. He looked away, pointlessly trying to bite back a grin, and turned towards Sherlock, suddenly remembering a question that was lingering in the back of his mind. “Sherlock… why are we here? I mean, not that we need a reason to go to your house, but I have the feeling that this has something to do with the message, right?”

Sherlock didn’t look at him, humming and nodding absent-mindedly. “I need to think.”

John smiled softly. “Yeah, I thought so. But I mean, why am I here? Do I not… distract you or… dunno, lower the general IQ or something?”

Sherlock shot him a baffled look, as if John had just said the most idiotic thing he had ever heard. “John, you might not be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable.” He sighed at John’s confused frown. “Some people who aren’t geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others.”

John blinked twice, trying to wrap his mind around Sherlock’s word; then a smirk twitched the corners of his mouth. “So… you’re saying that, even though I’m not brilliant myself, I help that big brain of yours doing his amazing stuff, aren’t you?”

Sherlock turned crimson and looked away. “Yeah, I guess.” He mumbled before flopping into the bed. “Also, mummy took my skull.” John didn’t delve into the skull matter, satisfied with gloating over Sherlock’s concealed and bizarre compliment and over the sight of the adorably blushing boy.

He sat onto the bed next to Sherlock, who had quickly assumed his thinking position: eyes closed, hands joined, fingers brushing against his chin. John didn’t have much to do, actually, so he just stared at him, at his slightly parted lips, at the soft curve of his nose, at the shadows casted on the creamy skin by his sharp cheekbones and his piercings. When Sherlock snapped his eyes open, John hoped he had managed to look away quickly enough.

“So. Brightly coloured shoes, he doesn’t mind being in the spotlight. Size eight more or less, I can’t be sure with such a small photograph and nothing to compare them with. Well kept: cleaned regularly, not overused, laces changed twice -and they’re not regular laces, they must be hard to find and probably a bit expensive-, a corner of a patch of fabric was starting to peel of and it was sewed in place. But they’re old, at least four years. They’re not objectively precious or particularly valuable, so emotional bond it is. I can’t see particular stains, but then again, small picture, not high resolution. But what else?” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and buried himself into his Mind Palace once again.

John didn’t dare to stare at him again, half in fear of being caught, half in fear of developing a very unbecoming hard-on, so he took his books and studied for a while. When his stomach started to grumble he tried to call Sherlock, but the boy didn’t seem to hear him, so he went to the kitchen -praying not to get lost in that bloody castle of a house- and made some sandwiches and tea. When he got back to the bedroom he shook Sherlock’s shoulder softly and handed him out the dinner. This time, though, not even John and his stubbornness managed to make him eat more than a couple of bites and a sip of tea.

He went back to the kitchen to wash the dishes, then crawled onto the bed once again. He tried to be helpful and think, he really did, but he really had no idea of where to start, and in the end he dozed off.

He blinked his eyes open several hours later. His shoes had been removed and he had been shifted under the covers. A young aspiring consulting detective was curled up against his side, deeply asleep. Hoping not to wake him up, John pulled him closer and pressed a soft, silent kiss to his forehead. He knew that he would regret it next morning, when they would wake up embarrassingly sprawled on one another, but now, still half asleep, he couldn’t care less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I can't wait to make them cuddle as they're both awake.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES IT'S ME YOU'RE NOT DREAMING I'VE REALLY UPDATED!!!  
> Really, I'm sorry, I thought I would have had more time during the holidays, but I've had even less instead. Anyway, since I got the new phone and Uni is gonna start again on Monday, I'll have my fruitful tube rides back so, hopefully, you won't have to wait another month for the next update :3  
> Also, my dearest (late) wishes of a very happy new year to each and everyone of you <3

The first thing he felt was the regular throb of a heartbeat against his cheek. Sherlock cracked his eyes open and blinked twice, trying to push away the morning daze.

_Oh, not again!_

He uncurled himself from John’s side as slowly as possible, cursing his body’s need to wrap itself around his best friend every time that sleep lowered his guard, and got up. He shuffled his feet to the toilet, washed his face and his teeth and fought for a while with his mop of curls.

When he went back to his bedroom, John was sprawled like a starfish, arms wrapped around a pillow as if to hug it. Something inside Sherlock’s chest twisted and melted as he sat on the edge of the bed, enraptured by the morning light that casted soft shadows on John’s relaxed features and made his ruffled hair shine like gold.

He stayed like that for a few minutes, then he forced himself to reach out and pat gently John’s shoulder. “John,” he whispered, “time to wake up.”

John blinked his eyes open and stretched like a cat, turning towards Sherlock with a soft, sleepy smile. “M’ning, Sh’lock,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse and drowsy and downright adorable. 

Sherlock bit down a smile. “Breakfast?” he asked, standing up.

John beamed at him, rubbing the corner of his eye with the heel of his hand. “Starving!” 

Sherlock helped him up, and it took all of his self control to let go of his hand and not hold it in his own for the rest of the day. He led John to the kitchen, instead, turned the kettle on and rummaged in the cupboards fetching something for breakfast. Soon they were sitting on the high kitchen stools with their feet dangling and two bowls of milk and cereals and two cups of tea in front of them.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed and he glanced at the screen. New message, unknown number. Again. He showed it to John as he unlocked the screen and opened the message.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

Four beeps. Most probably a countdown, then.

Another picture: same trainers, close-up of the front end. A spot of dark red mud, a soft stain of grass and some white dust. He stared for good ten minutes, John silent and frowning next to him, but he couldn’t see anything else and those clues didn’t tell him anything. What was he missing? Not enough data, _not enough data_.

A hand on his arm startled him. He looked up to find John’s concerned eyes. “Sherlock… We’d better go get ready now, school starts in half an hour. We can work on this thing this afternoon, ok?”

Sherlock nodded slowly and stood up reluctantly. _School_. School was useless, boring. This… this was new. Stimulating. Something he could focus on. He absent-mindedly rummaged in his drawers, picking fresh clothes for himself and a t-shirt for John, still trying to figure out what was behind the mysterious messages. What managed to distract him properly -and almost made him choke on his breath- was the sight of the above-mentioned tee snugly stretched on John’s broad shoulders and chest. It wasn’t just the breathtaking sight in itself: John was wearing _Sherlock’s_ t-shirt. He hadn’t chosen anything too eye-catching, just a black t-shirt with a dark grey skull, but it was his own and it was like marking his own territory and it felt so good. He tried to remind himself that it was not _his_ territory at all, but the roaring beast in his stomach didn’t seem to care.

* * *

 John’s mouth was full of mushed potatoes when Sherlock rushed into the cafeteria, grabbed his wrist and dragged him away. He was so shocked that he didn’t even try to pull away, and he barely managed to grab his backpack before it was too late.

“Sher- Sherlock? What the-” he managed to stutter, but clearly Sherlock was in the middle of one of his moments of deafness, so John gave up and followed without questioning. He wrinkled his nose when he realised they were heading towards the car park, not so keen on skipping lessons, but he didn’t complain and he followed Sherlock onto his motorbike.

When Sherlock stopped in front of the ballet studio John saw a bunch of police cars and an ambulance, and a small crowd gathered near the front door. Sherlock cursed, climbing off and heading for the entrance, but John grabbed his wrist and, for the first time, Sherlock met his gaze.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock,” John hissed furiously, “would you mind telling me what the hell is happening here?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but at least he didn’t ignore him, nor did he attempt to pull away. “The white powder on the trainers. It took me a while to figure it out, at first I thought it was gypsum but it’s not. It’s rosin, the powder we use not to slip on the dance floor. And the mud stain looked a lot like the soil of this parking, so I thought that there was a high chance to find something here. Clearly I was right, though honestly I didn’t expect _this_ …” Sherlock bit his lower lip and scratched the back of his head, clearly planning his next move, then took a deep breath. “Alright, just stay here, whatever happens _don’t move_.”

He was gone before John could say anything, his mohawk bouncing softly as he jogged towards the nearest police officer. John leaned against the motorbike as he watched their interaction from afar. He could see Sherlock’s expression change from wavering to worried to shocked. Sherlock clasped a hand against his mouth as he kept talking to the yarder. John forced himself to follow Sherlock’s order and not go there, clenching his fists as a tear rolled down Sherlock’s cheeks. Before his need to comfort his friend could overcome his desire to fulfil his request, Sherlock nodded to the officer and went back to where John was standing.

John took it as a sign and rushed towards him, meeting him halfway. “What’s wrong, Sherlock? What happened?”

Sherlock frowned at him, all the signs of shock quickly vanished. “Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. I was just trying to find out what’s this all about. He said that a boy has been found dead, he’s probably had a heart attack while he was dancing but there are no witnesses.”

“And did you know him?” John interrupted him, still concerned. “Is that why you were so… upset?” He flinched slightly at his own poor phrasing, but Sherlock frowned again, apparently confuse.

“No, I didn’t know him, and I wasn't upset. It was an act, I just wanted the officer to tell me more. And anyway I wouldn’t have been upset anyway, even if I knew him.” He looked down for a fraction of a second, then he straightened his shoulders and looked back into John’s eyes. “Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side.”

“Oh.” John breathed out. He would have sworn he had heard the sound of his heart breaking a bit, but he forced himself not to think about that and to focus on the task at hand. He cleared his throat and licked his dry lips. “Alright. Fine. So, you were saying, boy found dead, heart attack, no witnesses. Anything else?”

“Yes, and this is the interesting part: they didn’t find any clothing change, bag, shoes, nothing. I wish they’d let me in, if his stuff is hidden somewhere I would find it, but they’re not letting me, and-”

“Sherlock,” John cut in, “we must tell them. There’s been a murder, we must tell the police about the messages, this is not a game!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It is. For whomever sent me these pictures this is a game, and I don’t think they’ll be pleased if I don’t follow their rules. And the Yard would be useless anyway, they wouldn’t solve this in time…” Sherlock stopped abruptly and looked down. When he spoke again his voice was nothing more a pleading whisper, scornful facade abandoned. “I can do this, John… Please, just… will you trust me?” He peered up through his eyelashes, and in that moment John knew that he stood no chance.

There was no way he could say no to Sherlock, not ever and definitely not when Sherlock looked at him like that. He rolled his eyes more at himself than at Sherlock, smiling softly and huffing a silent chuckle. “Alright, you tosser, your way.” His smile grew as he saw Sherlock’s face brighten up, and he shook his head disbelievingly: how could be really accepting this? “Always your way.”

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock whispered, and he headed for the motorbike.

“Sherlock,” John called him back. “If things get bad we seek help. Ok?”

Sherlock nodded quickly, his expression serious. “Promised,” he said firmly, before he turned again and hopped on, wearing his helmet. John followed right away, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist in a way that was quite familiar by then.

When Sherlock left him in front of his house, John waved him goodbye, watching him leave, and he tried to ignore the weight that had settled in his stomach. Something was very wrong. He had to keep an eye on his Sherlock because, he swore to God, he would never let anything happen to his best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite its sad context, there's something beautiful in John's "your way, always your way" in hlv. I decided to redeem it a bit, keeping only the good side :)  
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!! :)


	14. Chapter 14

John waited for him for almost half an hour before he gave up and headed for his first class. He got a nice scolding for being late but he couldn't care less: he was more concerned by Sherlock's absence. He texted him ten times during the morning classes, and each time he didn't get an answer he told himself that perhaps Sherlock hadn't woken up, perhaps he had had fallen asleep late after having racked his brains all night over the snickers problem and now he was having a lie in.

But when Sherlock didn't show up for lunch either, John didn't even wait for the break to be over. He gathered his stuff and, without second guessing, he sneaked out. He didn't stop tapping his foot during the whole bus ride to Sherlock's house and all but ran from the bus stop to the front door. 

When he rang the intercom, a deep, cold voice answered asking who he was. He cleared his voice, suddenly nervous: if the place had been intimidating when it was just Sherlock and him, having other people around made it a thousand times worse. But then again, he couldn't back down now, could he? 

"I'm John. A friend of Sherlock's. I- I was wondering, is Sherlock home?"

After a long, nerve-wracking silence, the door was opened by a young boy. He was tall and thin, with a long pointed nose and an air of not-so-concealed disgust. John did his best not to squirm under his searching gaze, and breathed out in relief when the boy moved from the doorway to let him in.

"So," the boy said icily, "you're Sherlock's friend." John nodded firmly, trying to ignore the obvious mocking in his tone. "Allow me to doubt it for a moment. Sherlock is not exactly well-known for being _friendly_." John opened his mouth to talk back, but he was cut off by a snort. "Save your breath, I know you're going to say that you're not concerned about my opinion." It was John's turn to snort: he wouldn't have phrased it that way, that much was sure. The boy shot him a cold smile, then his features hardened suddenly. "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

John frowned and clenched his jaw. "I could be wrong... but I think that’s none of your business."

The young man raised an eyebrow. "It _could_ be."

"It really couldn’t," John retorted, cocking his head.

"Well, if you did," the boy continued, "I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."

"Why?"

"Because your family is not wealthy." John's mouth hung open in offence. "Oh, don't look at me like that, it's not out of pity. You could give me something in return."

"Such as?" John hissed through his teeth. He didn't like the way their conversation was developing, not at all.

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel ... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to."

John had to force himself not to roll his eyes. This was getting ridiculous. "No."

"But I haven’t mentioned a figure," the other replied, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't bother," John replied, smiling icily.

The other boy chuckled, and for a moment John thought he'd seen a sparkle of something in his eyes, understanding or maybe satisfaction, but it went as quickly as it had come. "You're very loyal, very quickly." John didn't answer, just holding his gaze. "Suit yourself," the boy said after a short silence. "Sherlock is in his bedroom, you already know the way, don't you?" Then he turned away and left John standing there, trying to get a fix on what the hell had just happened.

After a bunch of seconds, he shook himself and focused on his main task of checking up on his best friend. There was no answer when he knocked at the door of Sherlock's bedroom, so he pushed it open quietly. Sherlock was lying on his bed with his eyes closed, but he wasn't sleeping: the position of his hands was a clear sign of a Mind Palace trip. So John sat on the bedroom next to him and waited.

In about an hour, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. When he saw John his brow furrowed in confusion, so John smiled at him and explained quietly: "I was a bit worried when you didn't show up at school and didn't answer my texts, so I came to make sure you were alive and well. You gave me quite the fright."

Sherlock's eyes widened and he answered hesitantly. "I- I'm sorry... I didn't mean to make you worry."

John shook his head -every hint of annoyance at Sherlock's thoughtlessness had long since disappeared during the time he had spent staring at the person he loved the most- and reassured him. "It's fine. Just, next time send me a text ok?"

Sherlock nodded hastily and a soft smile tugged at the corner his lips. "And how long have you been waiting here? I'm sorry I didn't hear you coming, you could have shaken me!"

John shrugged. "It's fine, it hasn't been too long, I didn't want to disturb you. Any news about the case?"

Sherlock grunted and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Nothing," he muttered, pouting. "Absolutely nothing. I got another text this morning. Three beeps, which confirms he countdown theory, but nothing more. I searched for anything in my Mind Palace but it's useless, without the shoes there's nothing I can do..."

John bit his lower lip. "How long has it been since you've last eaten?"

"Er... Yesterday at breakfast, I guess?" Sherlock answered thoughtfully, and John's heart dropped.

"WHAT? For God's sake, Sherlock!" John was almost yelling, and Sherlock looked positively stunned by the sudden change. "You can't do that! You can't starve yourself because you care about the case more than about your bloody health!"

"John-" Sherlock tried to cut in, but John raised a hand to stop him.

"No. Don't. Please, shut up. Just... Just stay here. Wait."

John stood up and left the room.

He came back a few minutes later with a mountain of sandwiches on a dish and a cup of tea. He put them on the nightstand and stood next to the bed, scratching his arm awkwardly. "I'm sorry I threw a fit."

Sherlock grabbed a sandwich and nibbled at it. "It's fine," he said, but his voice was unusually cold.

"Sherlock..."

"It's important to me. This case, or whatever it is, it's important!"

He seemed half furious and half pleading, and John sat on the bed next to him. "I know," he answered softly. "I know how important it is, but I'm worried. You can't stop eating. I'm not saying you should give up or anything, but please, take care of yourself." He crooked an uncertain smile and nodded towards the nightstand. "Or let me do it, at least."

Sherlock's lips twitched in a stifled smile and he ate another bite of sandwich. Then he peered up at John and grinned, and John shoved him playfully, chuckling softly. "You bloody moron, you'll be the death of me!" Sherlock pretended to be knocked off by John's push and pulled John down too, and soon they were both giggling on the bed, the atmosphere quickly lightened. 

"Listen," John said, "Why don't you take a break now? We can watch a movie or something and you can rest that Stakhanovite brain of yours? And tomorrow, after school - no, don't look at me like that, we've skipped enough lessons as it is - after school we can investigate. What do you think?"

Sherlock smiled softly and nodded. "Alright. Sounds good." He got up and fetched his laptop. "Pick a movie," he said with a grin. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it has taken me ages to write this one and I'm not even completely satisfied, idek what was so hard about it xD Hope you'll enjoy it anyway!

Sherlock seriously considered plunking school. After all, John was not there to force him: his parents wouldn't have been happy if he had spent yet another night out. As if they really cared about him being at home, they just wanted to clip John's wings in every possible way, but Sherlock hadn't voiced that thought. It was most probably one of those things that people would classify as rude, and Sherlock was doing his best to behave more or less properly with John.

So, he considered skipping school. For little less than three tenths of a second, then he discarded the thought because John had made him promise, and he couldn't break a promise he'd made to John. So he forced himself to get ready for far too many hours of stupid, boring, pointless lessons, their dullness softened a bit by sporadic meetings with John and by the promise of following investigations.

* * *

Sherlock's phone buzzed during the lunch break, and he opened the new text keeping the screen half turned towards John.

_Beep. Beep._

Sherlock huffed in distress. Time was almost up and they were sitting at a stupid table in a stupid cafeteria.

There was also a message this time:  _I will burn you, Sherlock. I will burn the heart out of you._

Sherlock looked up, and John's terrified face hit him ten times more than the message himself. But he could do it, he knew he could. "Please," he whispered, "not yet. I can still handle it."

John breathed deeply, squared his jaw and nodded stiffly, his eyes still full of concern and his brow furrowed. It was pleasant -in a twisted way, but what wasn't twisted when it came to Sherlock?- to see that John actually, undeniably, sincerely cared about him enough to be worried about his well-being. It was enough to make Sherlock smile shakily, and the corners of John's lips twitched slightly in reply.

* * *

The police wasn't there anymore, children and teens filled the hallways and rooms of the studio as if nothing had happened. Sherlock walked quickly, with John a few steps behind. He carefully avoided his usual room -Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be pleased at him for missing his practice- and went straight to the room where the boy, Carl Powers, had died. The police had locked it, of course, but Sherlock picked the lock in a heartbeat, pulled John in and closed the door behind them.

The first glance at the room was quite disappointing. It was empty. Absolutely empty. No furniture, no telling marks on the floor, no interesting dust patterns. But there had to be something, there's always something. He inspected the mirrored walls closely, then the wood flooring, the windowsill, the door. John was clearly trying to follow without hampering him, and Sherlock was immensely thankful for it. He started pacing back and forth, getting more restless with every passing second.  _There had to be something_. His eyes roamed around the room once more and finally,  _finally_ , a grin spread across his features as his eyes settled on the grating that closed the air vent. Almost invisible and too high to be reached without a chair or a stair. It was perfect.

And, obviously, out of reach.

Unless...

* * *

What a stupid, stupid idea, Sherlock thought as he tried not to lose his balance. He was straddling John's shoulders: not a hard task in itself, but John's hands gripping his thighs sent shivers up and down his spine. And, given his position, most of his focus was on  _not_ developing an erection, because he would have been so screwed in that case. And not the good kind of 'screwed'. So he tried to focus on the grating, and definitely not on John's hands which had just shifted a few inches up his thighs and  _dear God_ , Sherlock needed to get a grip before it was too late.

Breath in.

Breath out.

He focused on the first screw, using his key to turn it counterclockwise and unscrew it. The others followed quickly and soon -never soon enough, though- the grating fell to the ground revealing-

"Yes!" Sherlock cried out punching the air. John's shoulders shaking under him made him look down, and he found his friend grinning and chuckling softly. Sherlock felt his cheeks flush a bit at his own childish reaction, but he couldn't really be arsed to care, not when John was looking at him like that.

"I gather we have the shoes, haven't we?"

"Yep," Sherlock answered with a wide grin, then he grabbed the shoes and let John lower him to his feet. Now it was only a matter of finding some useful evidence.

* * *

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing. 

Sherlock let his head bump against his desk. It was six in the morning and he hadn't found anything yet. John had fallen asleep around two o'clock, and Sherlock had somehow managed to drag him from the chair where he had dozed off to the bed. Then he had gone back to analysing the shoes, but everything was in vain: though advanced, his microscope and Chemistry set weren't enough. He needed more. He needed a real lab. He needed to break into the school's one if he wanted to get something done.

Sherlock ruffled the hair on the back of his head, his forehead still pressed against the wooden surface. He jumped, startled, when he felt a warm hand between his shoulder blades, then raised his head to smile wearily at John as he sat on the chair next to Sherlock. His hair was still ruffled with sleep and he was blinking drowsily. Adorable.

"You didn't sleep at all." It wasn't a question, so Sherlock didn't bother answering. "It's time to get ready for school. Did you find anything interesting?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing. I'll need to creep in the school's lab tonight, do you want to come with me?"

"Of course," John answered with a grin. "Wouldn't miss it for the world, your first case solved. Now get up," he added, standing up and pulling Sherlock towards the door by the hem of his sleeve, "let's go put something in your stomach before your transport breaks down."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: there will be a (hopefully short) hiatus because I'm writing a one-shot for my 250th follower on Tumblr. I still have no idea of how long the fic will be (could be 1k as well as 5k, I have no idea!), and therefore of when I'll be back on this one, but I don't think it will be too long, and I really can't wait to write the next couple of chapters!! :) Thank you for your patience!!  
> xx


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so, just a little warning. There's a little bit of violence but again, nothing graphic and mostly only implied, basically as it was in chapter 10.  
> Hope you'll enjoy this chapter!

John leaned against the wall, shoulders shaking in silent laughter and belly aching in the attempt to contain it. They had barely avoided being caught by the night guard, managing to force the lock, enter the lab and close the door behind them as quietly as possible mere moments before the man turned the corner of the hallway. They heard him walk past the door, and John covered his mouth and nose with the palm of his hand in a desperate attempt to stifle any noise. When the footsteps were far enough he let his hand fall, still panting, a bit breathless from their recent run, his hysterical giggles and the feeling of Sherlock next to him against the wall, maddeningly close and wheezy - something that diverted John's thoughts toward a definitely inappropriate and ill-timed road.  "That was... the most ridiculous thing... I've ever done," he panted when he finally got a grip of himself.

Sherlock chuckled next to him, a low, rumbling noise. "And you stared at an unknown ballet dancer from the doorway until you got caught."

John shouldered him playfully and slid down the wall, flopping to the ground. "So, ready to amaze me with some brilliant mad scientist stuff?" He asked with a grin. Sherlock didn't answer, straightening himself and heading for one of the desks, but John could see a hint of blush and a barely concealed smirk on his face. 

* * *

It was half past three when John had to leave to go back home, and Sherlock was getting restless: he hadn't found anything new yet.

It took him another three hours, but in the end - just in time to tidy everything up and sneak off without being caught by the first teachers - he found it. Only a slight, faint trace lingering in the spongy inner layers, he had to dissect the left shoe to find it, but there it was.

As soon as he was out of the school, Sherlock pulled out his phone and texted John. 

_The murderer dampened the inside of the shoes with a botulinum solution. The victim certainly had grazes on his feet, like any ballet dancer, so that's probably how the poison got into his system. Chances are they did it during his ballet practices, when his shoes were easily accessible, and possibly more than once to be on the safe side. I imagine you'll want to congratulate me and come with me to Scotland Yard when I tell them what bunch of idiots they are. I'll be there in ten minutes. SH_

He was on his bike, turning the engine on, when his phone buzzed with an incoming text from John.  

_Dear me, Sherlock, dear me. Nice job, really, it's such a pity that you didn't respect the deadline. I'll have to keep my promise. Battersea Power Station, don't make us wait: your pet seems sooooo eager to see you. JM_

Hadn't he been sitting on his motorbike, Sherlock's knees would have probably given out. He gripped his phone tightly, staring at the screen with wide eyes, as if the text could suddenly change by silently begging it, change into anything else, anything at all as long as it didn't mean that John was in danger, that _Sherlock_ had put him in danger. He started to feel dizzy and forced himself to slow down his breathing and clear his head from the steadily rising panic.

He could fix this. He had to.

For John. 

* * *

Sherlock's steps echoed in the empty hallways as he rushed around the power station. He sighed in relief when, at last, he found John in the middle of a huge, tumbledown room, only to have all the air knocked from his lungs when he saw his state. He was slumped on a chair, arms probably tied behind his back, with dried blood covering him from nose to chin and a dark, swollen bruise on his left cheekbone.

Sherlock was frozen in place, anger, fear and guilt storming inside him. It was John's hoarse voice that pulled him out, snapped him back to reality.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, no, run away, you shouldn't-"

A high pitched giggle interrupted him, and a boy stepped out of the shadows. Sherlock couldn't quite recall when or where he had already seen him, since his brain clearly didn't want to cooperate, but he was fairly sure that there was something familiar in those big, dark eyes and unusually long eyebrows. "Don't bother, John. He couldn't go away now, even if he wanted, could he?" The boy got closer and leaned towards John, who tried to shuffle away, wincing in pain as he did so. "And anyway," continued the boy, "I really don't think he would leave you here, all alone, in the wolf's den. His precious, dear  _friend_."

He pinched John's cheek, chuckling at John's disgusted glare, then he straightened up and turned towards Sherlock. "You know, Sherlock, I'm really offended," he said with a mocking pout. "I gave you my number... I thought you might call." Sherlock frowned, still not quite able to place him. "Jim Moriarty. Jim? Jim from the rugby match? Did I really make such a fleeting impression? Or maybe you were a bit  _distracted_." He smirked devilishly, then turned suddenly serious. "Anyway, we're not here to flirt, are we? This is a very _seeerious_ business."

"What do you want," interjected Sherlock, finding his voice at last, though he wished it hadn't been so croaky.

"But I've already told you, Sherlock, weren't you paying attention?" He sighed theatrically. "You see, the thing is that I really appreciate your brain, I do. You're almost as brilliant as me, and I like it, it's challenging. But this little _detective_ pastime of yours... It's quite inconvenient for me, you're in my way. Killing you -ugh- it would be  _boooring_ , a wasted opportunity to have some good fun! So, as I said, I will start with  _burning_ your heart."

Sherlock desperately hoped he was managing to mask his surging panic. He cleared his throat and answered, as evenly as he could. "I've been reliaby informed that I don't have one."

Jim chuckled and went back to John's chair, resting his hand on John's shoulder. "But we both know that’s not _quite_ true."

Sherlock's eyes flickered to John's for the first time since Jim had started to talk to him, and he found them steady and strong, as if he were trying to convey all his courage to Sherlock through his gaze. Sherlock nodded softly, possibly to reassure John that he was going to sort this out, probably to reassure himself of it.

"If you're done with the eye-sex, there are people here who are trying to  _work_. Oh!" He swatted his forehead as if he had suddenly remembered something. "I've been so rude! I haven't introduced you  _my_ pet. Though you probably already know him, don't you? Come here, Seb, don't be shy!" Sebastian Moran stepped into the light, bulky as ever, with a gun in his right hand and his left covered in blood.  _John's blood_ , Sherlock's brain unhelpfully supplied. Sherlock took a deep breath and forced himself to stay focused. "You see, Sherlock, I've thought about this for so long. How to destroy you. You didn't seem to care about anything but your stupid ballet, and that wasn't enough, not enough to  _really_ hurt you. And then," he continued with a devilish grin, "then you met your little John, and I finally found it. Your pressure point. And my dear Seb, here, will _immensely_  enjoy pressing it."

A fraction of a second later, Moran had gripped John's hair, pulled his head to the side and pressed the muzzle of the gun under his chin. Sherlock's breath hitched and he barely managed to stop himself from reaching out, rushing towards them or something equally dangerous for the both of them. Jim walked towards Sherlock, rose to his tiptoes and whispered in Sherlock's ear: "He loves playing with his food."

He grinned at the whimper that escaped Sherlock's throat, only to frown when a muffled noise came from a few rooms away. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, scowling at Sherlock. "I'm  _veeery_ disappointed, Sherlock. You should have known better than to call the police..."

It all happened in a bunch of seconds.

Moran shouted "He did  _what_?" and pointed the gun at Sherlock. John took advantage of his distraction and pushed himself to his feet and then back against Moran, making him stumble backwards and lose the grip on the gun, that flew away from his hand. Sherlock threw himself at Jim, but the boy quickly managed to pin him to the floor and throttle him. He tried to wriggle away, but his arms were painfully held down by a pair of bony knees, and kicking Jim's back didn't seem to work.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Moran regaining his balance and rushing towards John.

He saw the fist colliding with John's temple, heard the dull  _thump_.

He saw John falling to the ground, and wished he had enough air in his lungs to scream his name, but the hands around his neck were tight, his mind was fuzzy and darkness was pulling him into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, it's _so_ hard to write cases!! But it's almost done, and we'll be back to their every-day life soon, with ballet, rugby and a good deal of mutual pining ;)


	17. Chapter 17

_John._

Shit. It hurt. He felt like his head was being split in half. 

_John!_

He was floating. Floating in a sea of darkness and -God- pain. 

_Come on, John!_

The voice made it even worse, and someone was shaking him, and the more he regained conscience the more it hurt: why couldn't they just let him float?

"John Watson, wake the fuck up or I swear I will kill you with my own hands!"

John's eyes snapped open but it took him a while to focus the face hovering above him. Greg? Why was Greg there? And, actually, where were they exactly? What the hell was happening? 

"Oh thank God," he heard Greg saying. "Fuck, John, don't you dare scaring me like that ever again!"

Throbbing. His head was throbbing. He could feel it pulsing, and he could feel the hard ground under his back, and he still had no clue of what had happened. Damn, Sherlock would have been able to deduce it in a heartbeat. 

 _Sherlock_. 

His mind was overwhelmed by flashes of himself helplessly tied to a chair as Jim threatened Sherlock, of Moran pointing his gun towards Sherlock, of Jim pinning him to the ground. And then Moran had hit him and he had blacked out and God, if anything had happened to his friend John would have never forgiven himself. 

"Sherlock," he cried out, his voice hoarse. Screaming wasn't helping the pain in his head, but he ignored it and tried to sit up. His head spun a bit but it wasn't as terrible as he feared. "Where is Sherlock?" 

"Calm down, mate," Greg said, placing a hand on John's back to help him. "He's ok, he's with Mycroft now. You've both risked life and limb, but we arrived just in time. We've called an ambulance, they should be here in a few minutes to make sure that everything's alright."

John nodded slowly, then frowned in confusion. "Wait, 'we'? Who is 'we'?" 

Greg waved a hand dismissively. "Mycroft and I, plus a bunch of other men, Mycroft's employees or something. They took care of those two psychos that were trying to kill you: had them handcuffed in the back of a pair of black cars in less than a heartbeat. Better than a James Bond movie!"

John hummed, still frowning. "Ok... But how did you all know that we were here?"

"Sherlock called Mycroft," Greg said, busying himself with an invisible stain on his shirt. "He said you had been kidnapped and gave him the address. You should have seen the face Mycroft made when I said we had to call the police, he probably wondered why does he even-" He cut himself off and cleared his throat. "Anyway, turns out he is better equipped than Scotland Yard: he gathered a bunch of MI6 agents in less than ten minutes, and thank God he did: I may be good at rugby, buy don't think I would have managed to stop both Moran and the other guy in time..."  

John stared at him for a while, pointedly ignoring his friend's growing discomfort. There was something strange with what Greg had said, but this stupid headache was slowing him down and he couldn't put a finger on it. It wasn't that Sherlock had called instead of texting: after all, it was something too urgent to indulge in his distaste for phone calls. And it wasn't even that he had called Mycroft - though John felt quite honoured that Sherlock cared about him enough to turn to his despised brother. So what was it? What was- _Oh_. 

"Greg," he began slowly, not quite sure of how to formulate his question,  "what the hell were you doing with Mycroft bloody Holmes?" Greg went as red as a cherry and he didn't answer, and John really couldn't stop prying now. "Greg... Are you... Are you dating Mycroft?"

Greg seemed particularly interested in his hands as he mumbled a "yes" that almost sounded like a question. 

John stared at him unblinkingly, trying to assimilate the news. When his brain recovered from the shock he broke in a huge grin and patted Greg's shoulder. "Well, good luck mate, looks like you love challenges!" 

John could see a wave of tension leaving Greg's body as he chuckled and swatted John's arm. "Hey, you really can't talk, Sherlock isn't exactly easy as pie, is he?" 

John tried to mutter something around the lines of "Sherlock is not my boyfriend", but he felt to weak to deal with the umpteenth assumption about their relationship. "Come on," he said, trying to change the topic, "help me up." 

Greg frowned. "You sure? Maybe we should wait for the paramedics..." 

"I'm fine, it barely hurts anymore, I just want to get up from this damn ground."

Greg nodded and grabbed John's arm to help him. When he got on his feet his head spun and his vision went black for a couple of seconds, but he recovered quite quickly. He stretched his sore back, feeling a couple of joints cracking, but when he opened his mouth to announce that he was going to search for Sherlock he was cut off by a hoarse shout. 

"For God's sake, let me go you pretentious fat arsehole, or I swear-"

John's head snapped towards the voice, _Sherlock's_ voice, and he saw the boy shaking his arm form his brother's grip and dashing towards him from the other side of the room. One moment later, a weight smashed into him, making him stumble backwards and collide with the wall. He instinctively wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and held him tight, trying to support his weight when Sherlock's knees gave out. He quickly bounced back from the shock of having Sherlock's body pressed against his, of his smell filling John's nose, and he started to rub Sherlock's back soothingly.

"It's ok, Sherlock," he whispered against the dark curls that threatened to fill his mouth. "We're fine, we're both fine. It's over now."

Sherlock nodded against John's shoulder, then he steadied himself on his feet and pulled back a bit, to look into John's eyes. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes watery and still full of concern. "I thought-" he began, but the voice seemed to get struck in his throat, so he cleared his voice and tried again. "I thought that you... that they..."

He seemed at a loss of words, so John simply shook his head softly and, in a rush of audacity, he cupped Sherlock's cheek with one hand, brushing a sharp cheekbone with his thumb. Sherlock seemed to tense at that, his eyes widening slightly, so John withdrew his hand and placed it again on Sherlock's back. Then he let his eyes wander downwards and he sucked in a sharp breath when he saw the bruises that were starting to blossom on Sherlock's neck. Before he could say or do anything, though, the paramedics arrived. Sherlock let them pull him away like a limp doll, his face still frozen in shock from John's gesture, and John cursed himself for his total lack of self-control.

As they checked his head wound, though, he couldn't help thinking about Sherlock's hug, about the worried look in his eyes, and he felt his lips arching in a smile. It was worth a wound, it was worth many wounds to know the depth of loyalty and affection which laid behind Sherlock's cold mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yes. Garridebs. I love Garridebs moments. :) But... did I perchance change something from the original text? Oops! And what will that mean? ;P


	18. Chapter 18

Two weeks had passed since John's kidnapping. Two weeks, and they'd long since gone back to normal, back to their everyday activities, back to school, rugby, ballet and some crazy experiments that made John go crazy. Actually, everything had gone back to normal so quickly that it was clear to John that any hope of Sherlock's emotional moment meaning something more than friendly concern was nothing but wishful thinking. But after all John was used to silent pining, covert stares and guilty wanks by now.

So now they were sprawled sideways on Sherlock's bed, studying. Or better, John was trying to study, though most of his focus was on Sherlock's knee pressed against his thigh, while Sherlock was mentally rehearsing his ballet routine. When his mobile buzzed in his pocket he gave up on his attempts to memorise the different kinds of hydrocarbons, pulled out his phone and checked the incoming message.

"Shit," he cursed, turning towards Sherlock. "They postponed the last match before the holiday break. Your Christmas ballet is on the 20th, isn't it?" Sherlock hummed absent-mindedly. "At what time?"

"Half past eight. You won't be able to come?" Sherlock's voice was indifferent, but John knew better.

"No, don't worry, I'll be there. But I don't think I'll manage to see you and wish you good luck before."

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed visibly and he shrugged. "I don't need luck."

John chuckled, thankful that his friend was staring at the ceiling and couldn't see his lovestruck expression. "Yeah, I know that, trust me." Sherlock smiled, still looking upwards. "The good thing is that you'll have a good excuse not to come to another boring rugby match," John added lightly.

At that, Sherlock turned to him, looking confused. "But I like coming to your rugby matches."

John frowned, properly baffled. "But... didn't you hate rugby?"

When Sherlock looked away, a light blush covering his cheeks, shrugged and muttered "of course I do", a warm feeling spread in John's stomach.

* * *

Stretching was, sometimes, Sherlock’s favourite part of his practice: it was so easy to look up for a moment and catch a glimpse of John sitting near the door, looking at Sherlock as if he were something beautiful. He often looked at him in amazement, mostly when Sherlock delivered some particularly smart deduction, but it was nothing compared to the pure awe on his friend's face when he watched Sherlock dance. 

Right now, though, John wasn't looking at him at all: his head had fallen back, resting against the wall, and he had fallen asleep, wrecked by his rugby practice. It had its pro anyway, like being allowed to stare unabashedly without being caught and trying for the umpteenth time to sort out his thoughts. 

He had quite shown his hand, back at Battersea, completely overwhelmed by fear and relief. And he was sure that John had at least partially sensed Sherlock's feeling, probably clearly projected on his face when John had caressed his cheek. He had definitely seen Sherlock's desperation, his longing, his craving for that and for so much more, how could he not? And he had pulled away quickly, surely worried that Sherlock could interpret his gesture as something more. He hadn't broken the hug - too kind for that - but his rejection had been clear enough. So Sherlock had done his best to reassure him, acting as nonchalantly as possible, and John had fallen for it - or at least he had pretended to. And, Sherlock realised, it didn't really matter as long as John didn't run away from him.

John stirred, blinked his eyes open and looked at Sherlock with a soft smile, and Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth twitching upwards in response. No, nothing really mattered as long as they had this.

* * *

 "Why 'Three Continents'?"

John choked on a gulp of air at the unexpected question. "What?" He asked dumbly. 

"Your rugby mate, Graham," Sherlock insisted, "he called you Three Continents, I suppose it's some sort of nickname but I couldn't understand its meaning." His face was scrunched up in displeasure, probably at not getting the hang of something by himself. 

"Oh. Yeah. That..." John awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. "It's not- I mean it's a stupid thing actually..." He kept stammering, wondering how the hell he was supposed to explain this to Sherlock. They never talked about this sort of things, and his stupid hopeless crush for Sherlock made everything a thousand times weirder. 

"You don't have to tell me," Sherlock interrupted him with a thoughtful frown. "I was just curious, but you're in no way compelled to give me any explanation. I shouldn't have-"

"No," John interrupted him without even realising it. He couldn't have Sherlock thinking that John would hide something to him. "No, it's not like that. It really is a stupid thing, it's just..." He looked at his feet, trying to hide the blush that was making his cheeks burn. "Two years ago my father got a couple of jobs abroad, so we spent six months in the US and four in New Zealand. And since I've had a few girlfriends in there... Plus a couple here... That makes three continents." John's cheeks were positively aflame now. "As I said, it was stupid, but the guys thought it was cool and the nickname stuck." John silently congratulated himself for completing his speech without catching fire, even though it was a close call. 

John could feel Sherlock's piercing gaze, but a seemingly infinite minute passed before the boy said anything. "You're embarrassed," was Sherlock's answer. "An above-average ability to attract the fair sex is usually cause of pride, not something embarrassing." John looked up to find Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion. Then realisation dawned on his expression, shaping his lips in a soft 'o'. "It's not the nickname in itself. It's me. You don't want to talk about these things with me." There was something sad in Sherlock's eyes and, even though John really didn't want to discuss this stuff with Sherlock, he wanted even less to make Sherlock feel excluded. 

"It's not that I don't want to, it's just... I guess it feels a bit weird because we never did it before."

"But aren't friends supposed to talk about these things?"

Sherlock looked so confused and insecure that John couldn't stifle a fond smile. "Yeah, they usually do, but we're not the most conventional guys, now, are we?" Sherlock chuckled softly and looked away. "But you know, if you ever want to talk about some girl or boy or whatever-" Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes, and John sighed, torn between relief at Sherlock not being interested in anyone else and the thousandth heartbreak at him not being interested in John either. "I know, I know, not your area, I'm just saying that you can tell me anything ok? And well, of course I'd tell you if I started dating someone - actually you'd definitely deduce it before I could even tell you - but I really haven't been interested in any girl since..." _since you've met him_ , his brain unhelpfully supplied, but he really couldn't say that, could he? "for quite a while."

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully for a while, then the crease in his forehead smoothed and his lips quirked in a little smile that made the breath catch in John's throat. "Chinese?"

* * *

Sherlock locked his bedroom door with shaky fingers and leaned against it. He felt dizzy, a painfully hard erection trapped in his tight leather trousers. John's rugby matches had become unbearable as of lately: before John's abduction he only needed a few minutes to will his unavoidable boners away but now, as the knowledge of how John's body actually felt against Sherlock's was added to the visual stimuli of a very sweaty and dirty John, it wasn't as easy anymore. One night they had had dinner at Angelo's after a match, and when his erection hadn't flagged for almost an hour, making it absolutely impossible to focus on any conversation, he had resorted to a demeaning wank in the cloakroom. 

This time, at least, John had been forced to go to the pub with his mates, so after a painful ride back home Sherlock could at least take care of this in his own room. 

God, he could still feel his skin burning where John had touched his arm to thank him for coming. And he knew it was supposed to be a friendly, platonic touch, he knew it and he was disgusted at himself for thinking about it sexually, for imagining John grasping his arm with more strength, pinning him against the wall, his whole body pressed against Sherlock's, one knee slotted between Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock palmed himself through his trousers, and he couldn't help moaning softly, because it wasn't his hand, not in his head: it was John's hip pressing deliciously against his crotch and - _God_ \- it felt so good.

And his hands - John's hands - were everywhere, on Sherlock's hips, on his chest, brushing his nipples teasingly through the thin shirt, and then up his neck and the shaved sides of his head and into his curls and when Sherlock's - John's - fingers tightened and pulled his hair to bare his throat Sherlock's knees buckled and he almost collapsed to the floor. 

He threw himself onto the bed, ripping off his t-shirt in the meanwhile, and settled on his back, legs spread wide. His hands were too big, too thin, but maybe if he closed his eyes, if he focused enough, they could become John's hands caressing Sherlock's sides, leaving tingling, burning traces on his skin, toying with the waistband up his trousers, slipping inside just a little bit, teasingly, torturously. His hips bucked into the air and a breathy "John" escaped his lips.

He undid his trousers - a titanic effort with trembling fingers and not nearly enough blood in his brain - and took them off, his cock now only trapped by the thin layer of his silk pants. He stroked himself through the smooth fabric, palming his length and thumbing the tip, where a big wet spot had long since formed. His back arched and quiet gasps escaped his lips as his hand gave another couple of strokes before sliding off the last useless garment. 

He didn't do this. Masturbation had always been a practical business for him, a need that seemed to arise in his transport every once in a while when he woke up with a particularly resistant morning wood. Nothing more. Not this, never this, never something so ridiculously, dangerously, frighteningly involved. But he couldn't care less, not when he could feel John's hand wrapped around his cock, sliding up and down, gathering precum from his leaking tip to reduce the friction, moving downwards to fondle his balls. He needed this. He needed John's hands, John's lips, John's weight on top of him, John's cock rubbing against his own and - _ohgodyesyesfuckyes_ \- inside him. He had to... He had to get as close as possible to having John inside him, so he slid three fingers inside his mouth, licking and sucking at them, coating them with saliva, and the he pressed the tip of his index against his arsehole. It was tight and quite uncomfortable at first, but as soon as it got past the first ring of muscles it slid almost smoothly. He slid it in and out, hesitantly at first, then faster, tugging at his cock all the while. And it wasn't enough, not even remotely enough, but soon he added another finger, and then a third one, stretching his hole in a way that was just on the right side of painful, and there he was: it was John again, John pounding inside him, John's hand around him, his movements now frantic and uncoordinated and good, _so fucking good_. A stream of curses, of moans, of 'John's, of cries escaped from his throat, and he was coming, hard, spurts landing on his hand, his chest and up to his chin.

He smiled, satisfied, for a fraction of a second. Then everything dawned on him. What he had done, how wrong it was to betray John's friendship like this, how hopeless he was, how big the risk of losing John was if Sherlock ever gave himself away, how easier his life would have been if he hadn't fallen in love with his best friend. Or how beautiful and perfect it would have been if only John had loved him back. He squeezed his eyes shut, a moment too late to stop the tear that was now rolling down his cheek. He turned to his side, curling into a ball against his pillow, and cried himself to sleep, while smears of semen dried on his naked skin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT THE FUCK WAS THIS DON'T ASK ME I HAVE NO IDEA  
> Shit, this brings the "sad wanking" to a whole new level!  
> But aaaanyway. I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I'm so, so sorry for the pain! :)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me so long to write this -very short- chapter. I'm trying to get used to a few changes in my life and keep keep up with Uni, and it doesn't leave much time for writing. This was supposed to be half a chapter, but since the second half is proving to be quite hard to write and I've kept you waiting for long enough, I thought I'd post this one at least.  
> Thank you all for your patience, I hope I'll get used to the new rhythms quickly enough, so that you don't have to wait too long for the next update :)
> 
> Also, I just want to say thank you. I'm not good with expressing my feelings, but each and every one of your comments make my heart beat a bit faster. You're all beautiful and kind people and I love you all. :3

_4:16pm_

_Hey! How are rehearsals going? I suppose that when the match finishes you'll be busy getting ready for the show, so I thought I'd text you now to wish you good luck. So, good luck! ;)_

John's phone buzzed as soon as he stepped out of the locker room, and he pulled it out of his pocket to read Sherlock's reply. 

_4:18pm_

_Thank you, John. Rehearsals went quite smoothly, we've even finished earlier than expected and they've given us a break before curtain call. So, would you mind looking up and let me wish you good luck properly?  SH_

John's head snapped up so quickly that he could hear the joints cracking, but the ache was all but clouded by the sight of Sherlock leaning against the wall, with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket, looking as smug as can be. John forced his eyes not to wander - or at least linger - on Sherlock's long legs wrapped in black tights, or on the way rehearsals had made his curls messy and a bit damp in a way that screamed sex-hair. It took him a few moments to realise what was happening, and as soon as he did he smiled so widely that his cheeks ached: Sherlock had just used his break to come all the way to school to surprise John and wish him good luck. _God_. John jogged towards his - surprising, brilliant, gorgeous, fantastic, amazing - friend, pleased when he saw Sherlock's smirk grow into one of his precious, unguarded smiles. 

"Wow," John said, suddenly at a loss of words. "This... I- I didn't expect this."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the curve of his lips betrayed his satisfaction. "Yes, John, that's rather the point of surprises." 

John swatted his harm. "Wanker," he muttered, failing to hold back a grin. "Thank you for coming, though," he added softly. 

Sherlock looked at his feet and shrugged. They remained like that, in a silence that, though not tense, seemed more buzzing than usually.

Suddenly Sherlock was clearing his throat and pushing himself off the wall, his hands finding their way into the pockets of his leather jacket. "Well, good luck, then."

John smiled, still feeling a bit dizzy at the whole situation. "Thank you. And good luck to you, too. Not that you need it, obviously," he added with a wink that, in retrospect, was probably a bit too cheeky. He didn't have to worry about it, anyway, because Sherlock didn't seem to mind that much, and John got quickly distracted by the soft blush that raised to Sherlock's cheeks and his plump bottom lip trapped by his teeth.

"Obviously," Sherlock repeated, his deep voice sending shivers down John's spine, and it was all he could do not to push him up against a wall and devour him whole. Bit not good, that. He opened his mouth to say goodbye and leave before he lost even the last bit of self control, but Sherlock spoke again. "You don't really need it, either. Luck, that is."

A warm feeling settled in John's stomach, and he dared to take a step forward. "Oh, don't I?" he said with a smirk.

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head at the ground. "No, you don't. You're quite good on your own."

John beamed. It looked like a dream, and not one he cared to wake up from. They were standing closer than usually -when had he got so close, by the way?- and they were... flirting? Was this how flirting with Sherlock Holmes was? Whatever it was, it was amazing, and John felt almost tipsy. He leaned against a wall on his side, arms crossed on his chest, and licked his lips. "Oh, you're spoiling me, now. Be careful, you might give me a big head."

Sherlock smiled, adorable wrinkles forming around his eyes. He looked up at John, at last, and his voice came out a little hoarse. "I'd better stop, then."

John puffed and pouted theatrically, then he let the smile come back to his lips. "Too bad," he murmured, holding Sherlock's gaze. "I was quite enjoying myself."

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it again. A few different expressions that John failed to identify crossed his face, but at least none of them seemed outright disgust or offence at John's pathetic attempt to flirt. Sherlock's eyes flickered to the side, then to the floor, then settled on John's again. A soft smile still arched his lips when he whispered "good luck, John."

If the closure of the conversation felt a bit disappointing, John reminded himself that this wasn't the moment for the emotional turmoils, either good or bad, that carrying on with it would certainly cause. He had a match to focus on, and Sherlock had his performance. So he only allowed himself to lean the tiniest bit closer before answering as steadily as possible "good luck, Sherlock."

Sherlock lingered for a bunch of seconds, then he turned around and walked away, leaving John to stare at the curve of his thighs-cladded arse. As soon as he was out of sight John slid down the wall, sitting on the floor and trying to breath properly and slow down his heart rate.

_What the bloody hell was that?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JUST. KISS. ALREADY.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUESS WHO'S BACK?!?! Hello there!!!!!!  
> Thanks from the bottom of my heart for your patience, I know it has been three months, which is unacceptable, but here I am with a new -super short- chapter.  
> The choreography is [Lonnie Weeks' performance of the Nutcracker's Prince Solo](https://youtu.be/Wk_ekff-Jdc). Or better, I wanted to incorporate more of it, but I realised that I knew almost none of the names of the steps and that searching them was harder than I expected. So this is the result, I hope I haven't made major mistakes :)

Breath in.

Breath out.

Sherlock took his place in the middle of the stage, in _[croisé derrière](https://youtu.be/Wk_ekff-Jdc?t=25s)_ , ready for his solo.

Breath in.

Breath out.

When the music started, his tight scenic smile relaxed a bit. This was his place, this was what he had rehearsed for months. He was ready. A _[tours en l'air](https://youtu.be/Wk_ekff-Jdc?t=30s)_ , and the moment his feet left the ground he forgot all of his anxiety. It was just him, on a stage, performing a perfect choreography.

Just him and, somewhere in the crowd, John Watson.

His mind went back to their meeting, earlier that afternoon. Had he imagined the heat in John's eyes? It was probably just wishful thinking, wasn't it? But John had unequivocally winked at some point, that much was sure: it had sent Sherlock's mind in short-circuit for a good couple of seconds, and the mere memory almost made him trip in his _[pirouette](https://youtu.be/Wk_ekff-Jdc?t=46s)_. Damn. He had to focus, he couldn't ruin his performance because of some daydream.

Breath in.

Breath out.

Time for the  _[manège](https://youtu.be/Wk_ekff-Jdc?t=1m1s)_. He lost himself in the series of  _coupé jetés en tournant_ , adamantly refusing to get distracted further until the end of the choreography, but even so there was a corner of his mind that couldn't help wandering off towards a blue-eyed rugby player sitting somewhere in the dark stalls.

* * *

John shuffled his feet, the big bunch of flowers he had bought on his way to the theatre heavy in his hands, weighting him down.

So this was it. Time to be brave. Time to make a move. He'd go in and give Sherlock the flowers and tell him how amazing he had been, and then he would kiss him, because whatever had happened before the match was definitely _something_ , and John couldn't ignore it,  _wouldn't_ ignore it. He squared his shoulders and raised a hand to knock at the door of Sherlock's dressing room.

And then he froze.

Because what if he was wrong? What if it hadn't been the kind of  _something_ John hoped? What if Sherlock was just being kind and hadn't even realised that John was flirting with him? After all, John was quite sure that relationships weren't exactly Sherlock's area of expertise. Or maybe he had noticed -because Sherlock always noticed everything- but he had chosen to ignore it for the sake of their friendship. How could John risk to fuck everything up? He couldn't chance it on the base of a moment in which Sherlock had shown something that could or could not have been interest towards him. He had to be absolutely, one hundred percent sure.

So he took a step back and lowered his hand. He hid the flowers behind a stack of props, plastered on the least fake smile he could manage and knocked at the door.

When a flushed, sweaty, beaming, positively glowing Sherlock opened the door John felt his smile growing into something wider, more sincere. He wrapped his arms around his friend's slim body in a crushing bear hug, and he felt some of the tension melting away when, after a couple of seconds, Sherlock returned the hug.

This could be enough, anyway.

He had to find out somehow, he _needed_ to find out, because not knowing would have slowly killed him, but even if Sherlock didn't feel the same way towards him, even if this was all John would get, it was still so much more than most people had.

He pulled back a bit and looked into Sherlock's sparkling eyes, his own cheeks aching for smiling so widely. "You were brilliant on that stage. Absolutely brilliant."

Sherlock flushed even darker and hid his face in the crook of John's neck, mumbling a "thank you" as John held him tighter.

Yes, this could be more than enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If everything goes as planned I should manage to post more often now, but at this point I know better than to promise anything: a meteorite would probably hit my house or something like that and I wouldn't be able to follow through -.-" But I'll do my best, that much I can promise :)


	21. Chapter 21

**_24th December_ **

** **

 

_**27th December** _

 

_**31st December** _

 

_**1st January** _

 

_**2nd January** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this slightly different chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. :)
> 
> Also, there's no point in lying to you and to myself: this semester is going to be hell and I have no idea of when I'll have time to write. And the thing is that, as much as I love doing it, the more time I let pass between writing sessions, the harder it is to bring myself to start. I'm not saying that I'm leaving the story like this, I do want to finish it, I'm just saying that I already know that I'll only manage to update every once in a while... which is basically what I did for the last year so it's not such big news, but I wanted to let you know in advance :)
> 
> I love you all lots and lots <3 xxx


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